


The Lies We Tell Ourselves, The Truths We Still Believe

by MiliaTelamera, Sindaria



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Cersei, Multiple Pov, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, and brienne a man who isn't a complete piece of garbage, blends some book stuff with show stuff, everything post s8e4 just doesn't exist tbh, fleshes out canon scenes and adds new ones, giving jaime the character arc conclusion he DESERVES, just so much heart eyes happening in here, long-form roleplay, slow burn starting to catch fire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-06 03:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18842392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiliaTelamera/pseuds/MiliaTelamera, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sindaria/pseuds/Sindaria
Summary: Sometimes the truth is sweeter than lies. Sometimes lies are all we have to keep us safe.Jaime tells himself he's riding north to fight for the living, but in truth, there's still one oath he intends to keep. An oath he never made to a woman who would never ask for it. A woman who's somehow managed to make him believe in second chances.Brienne will not play the fool for anyone. Not even Jaime Lannister. His sudden devotion baffles as much as it thrills, but even now--so close to the end--she won't let herself hope for anything more than his friendship.A somewhat canon-compliant (pre ep5) fic written as long-form roleplay. Fleshes out some scenes and adds new ones.





	1. A Lion Amidst Wolves

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will be a collection of roleplay posts written between myself and MiliaTelamera. It's essentially broken up into dual-POV scenes, and I'll clearly mark where POV switches so it's as easy to follow as possible. 
> 
> We're actively writing this, and new scenes will be posted when they're completed. Most of them will be at least canon-adjacent, but we're absolutely deviating in and after episode 4. 
> 
> The rating is T for now, but will increase to M once we get to the point where it's necessary. (So yes, there will definitely be smut.)

\- 1 -  
JAIME

It felt like a lifetime ago,

That was the thought Jaime had as he paid for a third horse to finish the journey to Winterfell, the other two having succumbed to the howling winds and his brutal pace. He never would have imagined himself speeding away from King’s Landing--away from _Cersei_ \--with the intention of aiding those who rightfully hated him. With the intention of dying for those same people, not in some fated way like his sister had always believed, but in the middle of the fucking North, in the dead of Winter, scarcely able to feel the fingers of his one remaining hand when something long-dead tore open his stomach and spilled the meager contents of the hopeless mess of shit he’d become.

He thought of that often--that _thing_ he’d seen in the Dragon Pit. All of the petty squabbles, all the claims over the throne, all his past allegiances… it all ceased to matter in that one moment, when Jaime realized there wasn’t going to _be_ a throne to fight over. They would all join the Night King’s forces, an endless swarm of rank and file until he achieved whatever ends he intended. 

It’d been a story once and nothing more. A warning growled by an old, greying wolf who’d had the audacity to judge him. Even before that, it was only a whisper on the walls of Castle Black, passed back and forth between the Watch as a tried-and-true way to make new “recruits” piss themselves. 

But Jaime had seen it with his own eyes. He’d stared into the face of death and was met with icy resistance. He’d believed--he’d _hoped_ \--that Cersei had seen the same thing. That she’d understood the need to protect the realms, protect the living so the world their child was born into wasn’t quite as hopeless as before. 

In the end, Cersei only understood what she wished to understand. Everything else was conveniently dismissed with a grace and elegance Jaime had once found utterly spellbinding. Her cunning had at one time been an admirable trait, when she’d put it toward a better future for their children. Now three of their children were dead, and the fourth…

He was uncertain when he’d stopped believing there even was a fourth. At some point during the long ride north, with only his scattered, miserable thoughts to accompany him. He’d thought of Cersei often at first, holding out some foolish belief that she could see reason. That she could be the woman he’d once loved. When he’d reached the reserves of what little hope he had for a hateful, spiteful lioness--and in turn, what little hope he had for himself--Jaime held out hope for their child. 

A daughter. Huddling under thick furs, never able to get warm enough, Jaime had wished for another daughter. Sweet and beautiful and strong, like Myrcella. He thought of spiriting her away. Tyrion would help him, if they both survived. If he wasn’t executed on the spot. A laughable thought, but it gave him hope.

Until it hadn’t any longer. 

There was no child. That truth seeped into Jaime’s bones like the bitter cold. It was something he could never escape, and something a part of him had always known. Cersei knew him better than anyone. She knew what he most desired. She’d used it to get her way, just as she always had. Without the evidence presented by Jon Snow and the Dragon Queen, he would have let himself believe it--kept trying until it was true. 

But there wasn’t a child. There would never be anymore children. He was going to die in these frozen fucking lands with one hand uselessly clutching the lesser half of a perfect blade, its mate in the hands of one far better than he. In those moments, as he rode through the night, feeling as haggard and grey as that old wolf, Jaime wondered why he even bothered.

He was the Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. The man without honor. Few people would mourn him. No one would think upon him kindly--how could they? All he’d ever had was his loyalty to those he loved, to his family, and even that was tarnished like ruddy brass, no longer the gleaming gold he once believed it to be. 

_Fuck loyalty._

Every time he thought of those words, every time he saw her snarling face as she flung them at him, Jaime felt a little more certain in his actions. He cursed the North slightly less, cursed the Starks less still, cursed her least of all. 

When he’d first met her, Brienne was a creature of loyalty, through and through. She would never have broken an oath, no matter the cost. She hadn’t experienced enough of the world to know what that cost might even be. Oh, she understood cruelty. He’d known that from the start, exploited it to best serve his own goals of returning to Cersei. 

But along the way, that devotion of hers became a choice, not simply the default as governed by her own naivete. It was no longer blind, no longer so straightforward, and as she gained more clarity, Jaime had lost much of his. Before they’d met, he’d been certain in who he was and what he wanted. Everything he did served that purpose. Now the lines of what he should be--what he could be--were so blurred Jaime could hardly see them. They faded in and out with nightmares and dreams alike. His sword hand, rotting uselessly in the filth. Her sapphire eyes taking in his many burdens through the thick, billowing steam, looking at him as though he were simply a man, not the Kingslayer. The bottom of that pit rising up to meet him as he leapt, unarmed, between Brienne and a bear that had a taste for women in hideous pink dresses. The look on her face, the quiet dignity with which she’d taken a blade and armor of Lannister make, the firm resolve in her voice when she’d named that blade. _Oathkeeper_. For herself, he’d thought. For him, she’d said.

He had a great many days and nights to think of Brienne of Tarth. It was her eyes he’d always thought of before. He’d been able to ignore everything else, but her eyes were impossible to forget. He’d seen so much in them during their journey. Too much. Jaime believed he knew her better than most ever would, and yet it had taken him an embarrassingly long time to come to terms with a simple fact: 

He wasn’t riding north for Cersei, or for a child that would never be. He wasn’t even riding north for the realms. He was riding north because _Brienne of Tarth_ believed he was a good enough man to do so. Because she wanted him to be that. He’d seen it when she spoke with him last--the disappointment there, as she’d realized he was everything he’d always said he was.

He was riding north because if he was going to die in this land the gods had forsaken--if they’d ever overseen it to begin with--then he would die keeping at least one oath. The unspoken one that passed between them, when she’d implored him to be better. Jaime had no concept of what better even was any longer, but he knew where it was. 

It was in Winterfell, of all bloody places. At her side. Pretending to be half the knight she’d always been. 

The last leg of Jaime’s journey brought a certain clarity, and as the stone walls of Winterfell loomed in the distance, he knew what he must do before the end. If nothing else, he’d make her understand that she’d kept more oaths than she even acknowledged, and in doing so had inspired him to do the same.

The gates were open, riders going to and from. His hood was pulled up, the wool scratching his wind-burnt face. He dismounted in the courtyard, every muscle aching from the weeks of riding. His heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment he had the foolish idea that she might be there. Standing behind him in the outer bailey, somehow expecting his arrival. If anyone could manage such a feat of belief in him, it would be Brienne.

It wasn’t his wench standing there, though, tall and commanding in proper armor that finally fit her uncompromising form. It was a ghost from the past, a person who should by all rights not exist any longer. Who didn’t, perhaps, because the all-knowing stare that pierced Jaime’s soul was that of a long-blind wolf.

_The things I do for love._

The words sprang into his mind unbidden, the image of young Brandon Stark climbing into that window, bearing witness to a secret Jaime had never wished to keep in the first place. His gaze held the too-focused eyes of the boy who was a boy no longer. He was frozen, unable to move, to speak, to think past anything but his own demise. 

His deserved demise.

“She expects you,” he said in a distant voice that could be claimed by no man. “No one else does, but she always has.” 

He could not even begin to comprehend those words, could not comprehend any of it beyond the palpable relief he felt when Bran Stark turned in his chair and left him to stand there in the courtyard, at an utter loss. 

“Jaime.” 

A familiar voice brought him back to the present, and he looked up to see Tyrion on the battlements, his brows lifted in surprise. Surprise and something akin to joy, he thought. Jaime felt it swell in his own heart; a spark of summer’s warmth to drive back the cold. 

“I hope you’re about to tell me the Lannister army waits just outside the castle walls.” 

“I’m afraid not,” he said, tugging the frozen reins out of his useless gold hand. 

“Ah. Well. One disgraced knight should do just as well, then.” 

There was a slight twitch at Jaime’s lips, a crinkle at the corners of his eyes. Tyrion’s expression sobered, though. Something that unsettled Jaime even from this distance. He watched as his brother made his way to the nearest set of stairs, coming to stand before him. There was no familiar embrace, no clap on the arm. Weariness had taken them both, and it seemed likely that none of this would matter soon.

“I suspect our Queen will wish to see you,” he said, and Jaime followed his gaze to a pair of Unsullied armed with spears.

He wasn’t in chains yet. He supposed that was all he could ask for. There was one more thing he wished, though. If he was to be executed in front of a Targaryen, he needed to see the one person who knew the truth of his storied history with the Mad King. The one person who would make any of this worth a damn. 

“Hoping our dear sister has followed you across these great distances as you would have followed her?” Tyrion remarked.

Jaime openly scoffed, his gaze still moving about the courtyard, the training grounds, the battlements. She was nowhere to be seen. He would know it if she were. 

“I’m too old to hope for impossible things.” 

Again his brother’s brows lifted. “That is certainly a first.” The Unsullied advanced, but Tyrion held up a hand. “Ser Jaime will accompany us of his own volition, I’m sure. He has come this far.” 

Jaime gave a single nod, drawing in a breath through his nose. Idly he wondered if he’d just agreed to die, beheaded before the last remaining children of Ned Stark. Perhaps it was a fitting end.

“Find our Queen,” Tyrion said, his voice a grave command. “She will wish to summon her council.”

 

\- 2 -  
BRIENNE

Brienne had returned North from the meeting at the Dragon Pit to find out a great many things about Sansa Stark.

One being, she was much smarter than what she let on to those around her. Or at least had let on. Now her expressions were shrewder, harder, and less than pleased with the information she had brought with her over the meeting.

She was also deadlier, especially with her sister by her side, and there was something Brienne admired in both the beautiful and cold Stark women. It was not oaths and honor, but a continued will to fight and defend and survive. They were home, and she was glad that she had some small part in helping them return to it. Her oath, to Catelyn, to Jaime, could have been considered fulfilled, but she would not dare forsake either girl now.

They could not be everywhere and now, for some strange reason, Sansa brought her into her council more often than not.

And then the Dragon Queen arrived, along with the King of the North… No, no longer a king. The Warden of the North. Brienne was sure that fighting would break out before the dead arrived with all the tension thick in the air. Sure that someone else’s blood would mix with the stains of Lord Baelish’s on the stone floor of the Great Hall.

But it didn’t. It was an uneasy truce, as everyone began preparing for the dead to arrive. She was given over to training men who had never held a sword, and Sansa then gave her command of one arm of the soldiers from the Vale. It was an honor she would never forget, and one she intended on living up to.

Thankfully, her squire -- a funny thing since she wasn’t actually a knight -- had improved enough that he could help with the training. Each day on the field, she oversaw all of it, but her eyes often strayed to the horizon, hoping that the Lannister army would arrive, would honor the agreement made at the Dragon Pit.

_Fuck loyalty._

The shock on his face when she had said it, had swung him around, had been near surprising to her, but she had plowed on. This was above everything they knew. The dead were rising and coming to kill them all, and if he couldn’t see that, couldn’t put down the pettiness of his sister to defend everyone’s life, then he wasn’t the man she thought he was.

Each day that passed made her chest ache. Perhaps he wasn’t that man after all, that she’d seen fleeting glimpses of someone who had died long ago inside him.

The page that called on her to come to the Great Hall drew her from this day’s mind wandering. She didn’t think to ask the cause until she had made it through the gate and heard the rumblings.

_The Kingslayer._

Jaime was here? But where was the army that should be at his back? She felt her heart leap into her throat, and increased her pace. It slowed when she got to the doors, and she walked in, guided to her place at the tables amongst the other lords and ladies of the alliance that had been struck here.

He was standing on top of Lord Baelish’s bloodstain, and she did her best to school her face, to not let the worry etch her visibly that soon his own blood would be there to join it.

He was proud, so fucking proud, and so sure of himself. He wouldn’t even recant on the things he did before them. He wouldn’t tell the Dragon Queen the truth about her father, or how he had saved all those people. He came all this way, to fight for the living, but he was going to die right here on the cold stone floor for his fucking pride.

But then he turned to her… _This goes beyond loyalty._

He had heard her. He had listened. And Brienne couldn’t let the good deeds of this man go unaffirmed. He had lost his hand because of her, jumped in front of a bear for her, armed and armored her to fulfill an oath that he could not.

So she jumped in front of the dragon and the wolves to protect him. Recounted his honor, swore her trust in him was unwavering, and answered each question Sansa posed her boldly and unfalteringly. Her hand itched at her side as she waited, because she knew in that moment, if anyone had come for his head she would have pulled Oathkeeper from its scabbard to defend him.

But no one came, and with Sansa’s support -- along with something curious in her Lady’s gaze when she regarded her -- the others fell in line and let him live.

She returned to her seat as he was given his life to fight with them. Her heart was pounding in her ears as he took his sword from the Unsullied man who pressed it into his chest, and she wanted to escape this room as the relief that was through her was overwhelming.

Everyone was dismissed, and she saw Sansa summon her with just a slight tilt of her jaw. She spared one last glance at Jaime as she hurried to catch up to her. Their eyes caught, and she had to look away.

 

\- 3 -  
JAIME

On some level, Jaime was aware that if he groveled--if he confessed his many sins, recanted them before the council, and bent the knee--he would very likely be spared. But a lion did not throw himself at the feet of wolves, nor even a dragon. If he was going to die, he would do so with his name intact; with the convictions he held to and the very poignant reminder that he’d made mistakes, yes, but they’d all been in service of his family.

There was a moment, though. A brief moment when Jaime faltered. Those words spoken from the mouth of Bran Stark made him certain he was going to meet his end moments later. He would not be permitted to leave this room. His blood would join the curious stain on the stone floor beneath him.

The fear that lanced through him wasn’t for his own waste of a life, though. 

When he’d entered the Great Hall, brought forth by his brother, the room had been largely empty save the Dragon Queen who peered through him as though she could set him alight with her eyes alone. Her Unsullied captain--the one he’d noticed was nearly always by her side--had disarmed him with little ceremony, and slowly the council began to filter in. He’d expected Lady Sansa. Jon Snow might have been Warden of the North, but Winterfell was hers as much as it had been Catelyn Stark’s. 

What he hadn’t expected was Brienne. A foolish thing, since she’d sworn an oath to Lady Sansa. Her place was at the she-wolf’s side, and he doubted it had anything to do with him. If he’d seen her hurry to her seat, if he’d felt her regard more heavily upon him than any other, that was a mere trick of his imagination.

As he stood trial, as those words left Bran Stark, he could not fear for himself, but for her. Would she try to defend him, if they moved to end his life? No. Of course not. Brienne’s oaths might have incorporated far more shades of grey than they once did, but she’d sworn to serve Lady Sansa, and serve she would. Whatever existed between them, whatever ridiculous notions he might have had on the long ride north, it was not worth treason. 

Tyrion’s defense of him was not a surprise, though the tenderness in his brother’s voice as he attempted to reason with Daenerys Targaryen was something Jaime would not soon forget. It was obvious the Queen’s Hand had fallen out of her good graces, however, and with Lady Sansa’s input, it seemed his fate was decided. 

Jaime drew in a steadying breath, his chin inclining slightly as he looked the Mad King’s daughter in the eyes. Tyrion saw something in her. Something worth following. Jaime saw only a means to an end. Winter was bloody well here, after all, and if they survived it, war would soon follow. Perhaps he’d had a part to play in both, but he would not beg. Would not make apologies for his many, many sins. 

The hard, sudden scrape of a chair pulled his attention away from the council, and Jaime’s heart practically slammed against his ribcage as he saw Brienne move to the center of the chamber. Standing in front of him, shielding him, armed with nothing that would truly be of any use in this particular room. His lips were parted, his eyes on her for a perilously long moment before he looked down, the roar of a bear echoing in his mind. 

There was something poetic about it, but Jaime hardly deserved poetry from this woman, of all people. She certainly gave it, though. Her speech was not especially eloquent. It was not laced with the pretty words of a politician. She spoke as a knight--direct and bound by a truth she felt needed to be spoken. So direct, in fact, that Jaime practically staggered from the efficient recounting of everything they’d been through together. And there was no reality in which Jaime Lannister should sway on his feet like some blushing maid, but that was the strange state he found himself in, his gaze seeking out the roaring lion that made up Oathkeeper’s pommel.

It was her confident, prideful assertion that nearly broke him, though. When Lady Sansa asked if she would fight beside him, he’d expected… he had no idea what he expected. Something diplomatic, perhaps. _I’ll do what I must._ But that wasn’t Brienne. He couldn’t even hear those words being spoken in her voice. Instead, she made yet another oath. To him. 

Jaime was unsure how long he stared at her. It was, for a very long moment, quite impossible to tear his gaze away. That she was so willing to openly defend him before her lady was something he could not fully process. That he’d ever found her to be anything less than awe-inspiring was even more difficult to comprehend. 

When he finally managed to pry his gaze away from her, he was being judged by a woman who had every reason not to trust him… but every reason to believe in the woman who served her. The grim, unceremonious acceptance that followed was solely because of Brienne’s intervention. She’d been his salvation yet again.

His sword was returned to him, the council dispersed, and Jaime’s eyes sought her out again. The temptation to follow, to demand to know why she would confront her lady over the fate of an honorless fool, was stronger than Jaime could bear. Weeks he’d spent alone with his thoughts, imagining what he might say to her, what she might say to him. He’d told himself countless times that he simply didn’t _matter_ that much. His arrival at Winterfell would only herald the sad addition of just one more person to add to the Night King’s army. But it was difficult for even Jaime to believe he didn’t matter, especially when their eyes met, held before she hurried after Lady Sansa. 

He didn’t follow. Couldn’t seem to get his legs to work properly, nor his brain to think of anything remotely appropriate to say. He could also feel that piercing regard on him once more, and when he looked, he saw the unfocused eyes of Bran Stark.


	2. The Kiss of Twin Blades

\- 1 -  
JAIME

The conversation that followed his would-be trial was one that only made Jaime even more aware of his fate. He hadn’t unburdened himself. Hardly. If anything he felt the weight of his role pressing down even firmer than before, yet what use could a one-handed lion be in this fight? Realistically, he might cut down a few of those creatures. Perhaps a dozen, if he was lucky. More likely than not, he would be one of the first to die. 

If he was to believe in whatever Bran Stark had become--and he wasn’t entirely sure that he did--then it was clear his role lay somewhere else. Selfishly, some part of him hoped that role was in protecting the woman who’d so confidently protected him. Ensuring she might live on, might help Lady Sansa rebuild the North--if indeed it still existed after this. 

The cynical side of him found it very unlikely. There was every chance she would be killed trying to protect him, and that thought cut him deeper than any of the events of this day. He found himself returning to Winterfell, knowing he needed to speak with her, unsure of what he could even say.

Tyrion found him first. Their conversation was somewhat more light-hearted than the last, and yet there were bitter truths there that Jaime had thus far only examined on his own. Truths he didn’t want to acknowledge about the lengths he’d let himself go to. There had been a time when speaking of Cersei would have been like surfacing for a much-needed gasp of air. Now it felt stifling; a weight he could never hope to shake. 

The ring of steel called out to him from the training yard below. Hardly an unusual sound, considering, but the bellowed orders that followed caught his attention. He was pulled away from the topic at hand. There was nothing more to say on it, and Jaime’s attention was fixed on a commander in blue armor. He’d scarcely noticed his legs had carried him to the other side of the battlements--that Tyrion was beside him no longer. 

Jaime pulled his cloak tighter about himself and descended the battlements, approaching her as though he had any right to stand by her side. A warmth filled him, so rare now, as he noticed she was smiling. Following her gaze he saw her squire, much improved since the last time. He fought like her now. Brutal. Decisive. She’d made Podrick Payne into something better. She was rather skilled at that.

After a long moment, she acknowledged him, speaking his title. Jaime inclined his head, following her lead. The familiarity he wanted--for some damnable reason--was not meant for places such as this. Perhaps it was not meant for anywhere. 

“Lady Brienne.” His gaze lingered on her, but when she engaged with him no further, he watched her squire. “He’s come a long way since last I saw him. It’s to your credit that he’s made it this far.” 

 

\- 2 -  
BRIENNE

Sansa had not pried or said anything about her defense of Jaime, though her eyes told her that she would eventually press for more information. Her summons had been to get a bead on how the training was going with the raw recruits, and make sure that Brienne wasn’t having any trouble with the men from the Vale under her command. Which relieved her, she didn’t think she had it in her to talk dispassionately about the man she had stood in front of, or the way she had gripped the hilt of her sword when she thought he could still be in danger.

Lady Sansa saw everything. That was a conversation she knew she would be having soon enough, if they survived the dead’s arrival. Once her report was finished, she was dismissed to return to the field.

Brienne was more sure of herself out here, amongst the warriors. She’d proven herself more than once since taking command, and while some men still grumbled at her holding the position, she did not receive the same level of mockery she had when she was part of Renly’s camp.

She shouted at a pair, correcting their form before moving to watch Podrick. It wasn’t long after that she heard boots crunching behind her and the hairs on her neck stood. She caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye, giving him a courteous greeting. Her heart threatened to leap from her ribs and beat against her breastplate, and thus she turned her full attention on Podrick, a faint proud smile on her lips.

“He’s come a long way since last I saw him. It’s to your credit that he’s made it this far.” Jaime said at her side and she lifted her chin, the ghost of a smile slipping.

“He still has a lot to learn,” which was true, but he was better than he had been when he was placed into her service by the man at her side. She still had the rest of the field to look over so she moved away.

Brienne had thought of a million things to say when she saw him again, and yet she couldn’t say any of them. Their last conversation had been tense, with Cersei’s hateful eyes boring into her, Jaime turning to follow her like a whipped dog. 

It was he who started the conversation this time, mentioning he had been told she was commanding the left flank. It was easy to talk about this, commenting on the rise and their chances as if the army coming for them wasn’t waves of dead men. He agreed with her tactical assessments, and she couldn’t stand it anymore.

She wheeled on him, uncertain of his intent and the fact that he was following her around almost like an attendant. Their conversations had never been like this, even with the amount of respect between them, “What are you doing?!”

 

\- 3 -  
JAIME

He’d thought of so many things he wished to say to her on the ride North, but there didn’t seem to be a chance in the Seven Hells of him remembering even a single one of those things in the moment. Instead he stood there dumbly, feeling a twinge of ridiculous hurt over the fact that she’d immediately closed herself off when he began speaking.

Brienne had always been a guarded person, and why wouldn’t she be? For as much as he’d insulted her intelligence during their early acquaintance, she was not truly a fool. She knew how people treated her. How _he’d_ treated her. She’d grown accustomed to making herself some kind of grim, grey background decoration in this miserable world, instead of the sparkling sapphire she should have been. 

On days when he was feeling more charitable toward himself, Jaime believed she was playing a role. One she’d chosen in part, but also one her circumstances had forced upon her. Jaime Lannister played many roles, too, but at present he was too… tired to make a proper go at it. 

So instead, he spoke of safe things. Things he might speak of with any other commander. Never mind that she was hardly any other commander. Her suspicion was immediate, their conversation strained from the start. She whirled on him quickly, agitation in her voice. 

“What are you doing?!”

Jaime’s brows lifted, though his trademark smirk was nowhere to be found. He spoke drily, perhaps more annoyed at himself than even she was. “Making conversation. I’m told it’s what they do in the North, to keep from freezing solid.” 

Any other time, a more pointed jape might have followed. Likely an ill-advised comment about the countenance of Ned Stark. He wasn’t feeling especially eager to jest at the moment, especially with her. She served the Starks better than anyone else had, and Jaime was under no illusions that their… history might protect him from her ire. 

“Is my conversation unwelcome, my lady?” He took great care to guard his words. _Conversation_ instead of _company_ , and he was aware of his tone in a way he’d never truly been before. 

 

\- 4 -  
BRIENNE

She expected him to smile and blow it off, to finally make some half-hearted attempt at a jab at her. But Jaime looked nearly as frustrated as her when he responded, “Making conversation. I’m told it’s what they do in the North, to keep from freezing solid.”

Not a jab at her then, instead at the North, where he had been unwelcome and nearly murdered little more than an hour ago. She straightened, looking down at him, not sure what to do with him. On the road, it had still been jabs, but less crude. In King’s Landing, the banter between them continued, with her trying to break through it to no avail. 

“Is my conversation unwelcome, my lady?” Jaime Lannister suddenly seemed just as guarded as she, and she didn’t know what to do with that.

Brienne stood there dumbly for a moment, brows knit as she held his gaze. When she finally spoke her words were softer than she would have liked, but still certainly held a weight, “Conversation with you usually ends up with an insult or a joke.”

But not all of them had, she had to remind herself honestly. There was no joke when he had given her the armor she now wore, or the sword she now held. Her hand tightened around the hilt at the thought.

 

\- 5 -  
JAIME

When she looked at him like that, so clearly trying to read his intentions, Jaime felt as if he’d been disarmed. _He_ wasn’t even fully cognizant of his intentions, and some part of him feared what Brienne might see when she delved beneath the surface.

Worse than that, he found himself caring what she thought of those revelations. 

“Conversation with you usually ends up with an insult or a joke,” her words were spoken more softly than before, but with more than enough force to keep him off balance. 

There were a thousand things he might have said, but the words that emerged from him were wholly defensive. “Would you prefer I insult you?” 

He was given no time to wonder. Her response was fierce and immediate. “No!” 

And Jaime’s came just as quickly, a sharp parry in answer. “Good!” 

Only there was no follow-up strike. No weakness to be exploited here. No thoughtful information to be gained about his opponent. Jaime truly was disarmed, and he simply stared at her for what felt like an eternity, even for him. 

She truly did have lovely eyes. Even when they were filled with confusion over what, exactly, he was doing. 

_I wish I knew._

He looked away from her, his jaw setting, ever the stubborn lion. His throat worked and he suffered through his own inability to engage with the words he’d recited in his head too many times to count. They were buried somewhere now, lost in all this damned snow. Lost in the recesses of Jaime’s mind where no one should ever have to go.

Gods’ sake. Her squire would have an easier time fighting the Night King’s army by himself, blindfolded, than Jaime Lannister’s doomed attempt to speak. 

“I came to Winterfell because…” 

He couldn’t look at her at first, and when his gaze finally met hers, it was accompanied by the tilt of his head. Surely she knew. Surely she wouldn’t believe it to be some stroke of goodness he’d stumbled upon all by himself. Whatever she believed him capable of, whatever honor he still possessed, all of it existed because of her.

It was all because of her.

He might have said that and eliminated any doubt, but she’d very likely think he was trying to catch her out. So much of their acquaintance involved Brienne having to keep her guard up because he was relentless in his mockery, in his misery, and in the many ways in which he knew he’d disappointed her. 

He didn’t want to disappoint her in this, so he spoke to something he knew she could not question. “I’m not the man I used to be,” his voice was rough; weary. He was dimly aware of the fact that he’d taken a half step closer, “but I’d be honored to serve under your command.” His eyes lifted to hers, and this time, he didn’t look away. “If you’ll have me.” 

 

\- 6 -  
BRIENNE

Damn this infuriating man. Of course she didn’t want him to insult her. She wanted his respect, which she thought she had. Was sure she had. By the Seven, why was anything save for fighting difficult in this world.

When he shouted that final _Good_ at her she waited for more. What else could she say? He hadn’t really answered her question at all, so her eyes stayed trained on him. But then he looked away from her and she wondered if she had wounded him. Jaime had often been rendered speechless by her, something she never really understood how she accomplished, but he had always been steadfast in keeping his eyes on hers.

But he looked _down_. The last time he couldn’t keep his eyes on her was back in Harrenhal when he was laying his soul bare before her. It was like watching him try to wrestle with something and she wanted to step in and stop it. It made her uncomfortable, and she wasn’t sure that she exactly wanted to know what he was struggling with saying.

Because to know might mean to _hope_ , and Brienne couldn’t hope. Not when death was approaching, and not when everything else he had done in the world outside of them had been for someone else.

“I came to Winterfell because…” his head had canted in her direction but his eyes still could not meet hers. She wanted to bolt like a spooked horse, but she only tightened her grip on Oathkeeper’s hilt and stared at him.

He finally, painfully, looked at her and that urge to bolt grew larger. No one looked at her like that, only Jaime, and Brienne refused to ascribe exactly what kind of look it was. To name it was to give in to it, and she would not be a fool. Not even for Jaime Lannister.

“I’m not the man I used to be,” he sounded defeated, but despite that his words held a desperate confidence, “but I’d be honored to serve under your command. If you’ll have me.”

Her throat worked, and she held herself ramrod straight. The words stuck in her throat, _It would be my honor… There’s no one else I’d want fighting beside me…_

Instead she gave him an unsteady nod of agreement, finally swallowing after a moment and breaking eye contact. She could not begin to fathom the depth of that gaze.

“I should get back to training…” It was a weak excuse, but she felt she needed to retreat. This was a battlefield she wasn’t prepared for.

 

\- 7 -  
JAIME

For a very long moment, Brienne scarcely moved, scarcely seemed to _breathe_ , and Jaime found himself caught at the edge of something; waiting. When he finally did note the unsteady lift of her armor, he breathed, as well. And--ridiculously--when she nodded, Jaime answered with a nod of his own.

_Right. Yes. We’ve come to a mutual agreement based on words neither of us seem capable of saying. Fucking fantastic._

“I should get back to training…”

“Of course,” he said hurriedly, gesturing as though he’d just permitted her to leave.

As she returned to her work, Jaime abruptly came to realize that he had absolutely no idea what to do with himself. He watched her for several moments, how stiffly she held herself, her back turned to him. Every muscle in her body was tense, and he supposed she might have seemed ungainly but for the very real knowledge Jaime had that she’d been more relaxed, even smiling before he approached. 

Now she was rigid, the only sign of movement her fingers curling, releasing, stroking across that damned lion’s head. He wasn’t entirely sure she’d stopped touching the thing since he’d arrived. 

He could leave her be. He _should_ leave her be, but where was he to go? Speaking to Tyrion any longer would likely lead to questions and considerations he wasn’t comfortable facing just yet. Everyone else here despised him. He was certain he’d been spat on at least a dozen times since arriving, and cursed a dozen more. 

He had no reason to be here, but for this endlessly frustrating woman who was doing her very best to ignore him. Here, then, was where Jaime would stay.

“You know, I spent several weeks on the road. I could use a refresher before I’m hopelessly mauled by the dead.” A joke in poor taste. Jaime’s smile barely lasted half a beat. “Pod, what say you?”

Brienne’s squire seemed eager, separating from his current partner. Still, he looked to his lady for her command, and Jaime did the same, unbuckling Widow’s Wail from his sword belt, his fingers closing around the hilt as he drew it forth. 

The weight of Valyrian steel never ceased to thrill him. There was something so very _right_ about it--something he’d been better able to appreciate with a proper sword hand, but could no less envy now. Sunlight glinted off steel as Jaime readied himself, doing his best to ignore the nagging thought that this sword deserved to be paired with its mate and no other. 

“You won’t go easy on a poor, old lion, I hope,” Jaime taunted, some of his old vigor returning, his sword held deceptively at rest, a glint in his eyes as he squared off with his opponent.

 

\- 8 -  
BRIENNE

She moved past him, cravenly retreating like he was a threat of some sort. What kind of threat, she again couldn’t name. She’d locked herself in all sorts of armor for so long. Easier to deflect than accept, and she did have work to do. There was no telling when the dead would arrive, and these men needed to be ready.

At least, that was the excuse she kept repeating in her head.

Usually she could relax at this task. But Jaime didn’t leave the field. She could feel his eyes even though her back was to him, and her grip on the sword grew tighter. _His_ gift to her, to fulfill _his_ oaths. His oaths and her own.

It wasn’t too long until she heard his voice again, “You know, I spent several weeks on the road. I could use a refresher before I’m hopelessly mauled by the dead. Pod, what say you?”

Brienne almost protested, but Pod was already seperating from the man he had been sparring. Still they at least waited for her word, which was a strange thing. That Jaime looked to her to ascent to this. It dawned on her that she had in fact agreed to be have him under her _command_ just moments earlier. Warrior protect her, she was losing her mind.

Jaime offered words to Pod, “You won’t go easy on a poor, old lion, I hope.”

Pod was smiling, but Brienne’s lips screwed into a firm line, “He better not, or I’ll be the next person he spars today.”

She gave a curt nod, and the spar engaged. Brienne began to walk a large circle around them observing their movements. 

“Footwork, both of you. I know it’s muddy but you can do better.” she barked, treating them like any of her soldiers. People around seemed to start noticing, and stopping their training, apparently wanting to get a look at the Kingslayer fighting a squire.

“Back to it, all of you. This isn’t a tourney!” She bellowed, and the men fell in line.

 

\- 9 -  
JAIME

She wasn't coddling him. Good. Not that Jaime had ever truly believed she was capable of coddling anyone, especially her squire. It was just reassuring to know that she'd obviously trained him to possess the same grit and confidence she demonstrated on the battlefield. In a better world, it might keep him alive when the dead came for them. 

At least Podrick would go down swinging, which was more than Jaime could say of himself. 

His fingers flexed around the hilt of Widow's Wail, sharp adrenaline beginning to course through his veins. It followed the flow of his blood as Jaime took a step back, lifting his sword to deter a strike at the same time. It pumped harder still when he went on the offensive, the unwieldy act of cutting across his body from his left side somewhat easier to manage now.

Years ago, a sparring match with a squire would have hardly signified. Jaime was not the type to restrain himself in battle unless there was a clear purpose for it, so he would have knocked the boy into the dirt at least a dozen times over and felt little remorse over doing so. Better he end up on his arse than face down in the snow.

Now, Pod was much improved under Brienne's tutelage, and he was a broken knight with one hand--the wrong hand. The gap in their skill level was far more narrow than it should have been. And, truth be told, Jaime was rusty.

"Footwork, both of you," he heard Brienne bark, her voice clear and commanding. "I know it's muddy but you can do better." 

Jaime's posture straightened in the same instant as Pod's. He might have laughed at himself if not for that grasping pull of pride. He'd served under the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms, received his knighthood from Ser Arthur Dayne, of all people. Now he was scrambling like a boy at the instruction of a woman who...

A woman who was better than the lot of them. Certainly better than Jaime. Some days, he thought she might even rival Ser Arthur Dayne himself. He would have liked her, had they ever cause to meet. Or perhaps that was romantic idealism at work. There were many men who felt threatened by the idea of a woman being better than them in any way. It was very possible Arthur was one of them.

What kind of a man was Jaime Lannister, then, to feel a hot, surging thrill sing through his blood when this one commanded him thusly? 

Pod advanced, and Jaime made use of his right arm in the only way he could, pushing the man back, his sword poised just below his opponent's right arm, fit to slip between the ringmail if he pressed. As Brienne warded off the onlookers--those who were no doubt taking bets over whether a squire could best the infamous Kingslayer--he went on the offensive. 

He'd always been a graceful swordsman. At one time, his blade was an extension of his arm. That was no longer the case, and Jaime was forced to dig deep into the well of his confidence to feel as though he had anything resembling an advantage. He made the most of Pod's (admittedly few) stumbles, pressing, acting as the aggressor. The lion closing in on its prey.

There was something powerful about it; a feeling Jaime had never encountered anywhere else. Sweat stung into freezing cold the instant it beaded on his brow, his muscles burned with the sudden burst of activity after a long rest, but he was grinning. 

And then he was being foolish. 

He tried a maneuver that he'd only ever done with his right hand, wherein he flattened his wrist and flipped the heavy blade downward in time to counter a blow, then used his trailing leg to push forward. Pod's sword met his, steel scraping steel, but the wrist movement didn't come to Jaime as easily as he'd hoped. He lost ground, and in trying to push forward was met by resistance from Pod. 

Then he was in the mud, the wind knocked out of him, the point of the squire's blade at his throat. A thousand vile, hateful things swarmed his mind. He was bloody useless like this. Hardly a Lannister anymore. Hardly a man. He'd ridden north to die, clearly, and was just too craven to accept his fate elsewhere. He was nothing without that sword hand, he'd always known that. And now...

Jaime laughed. There on the frozen ground, with cold wetness seeping in through his clothing, his ego far more bruised than his body, all he could do was laugh. Not the bitter, caustic laugh he might have let out after he'd lost his hand, but something more joyous. Maniacal, perhaps. He couldn't tell anymore. 

"Ser Jaime?" Pod enquired. 

"Pod, will you do me a kindness?" he asked, beckoning the boy closer.

"...Ser?" He leaned in, his posture still guarded.

"Be sure that when they mark my demise, they write the words: 'The last stand of Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer, felled by his own hubris.'" 

He extended a hand and Pod took it, an uncertain smile on his lips as he helped hoist Jaime to his feet. Jaime clapped the man on the shoulder.

"Not as soft as you might have believed, is he?" he called to Brienne. "There's little showmanship in his form, rather like your own." Second-guessing himself, he added, "That's a good thing. Perhaps I should have been under your instruction these past years, as well." 

 

\- 10 -  
BRIENNE

Once the rest of the men finally went back to it, her focus was back on Pod and Ser Jaime. Pod was growing quite competent. Likely in a few years he’d be good enough to find someone to give him a knighthood and all the duties it would entail. Sad to think she wouldn’t be the one able to give it to him, but it was something she had long dismissed as an unattainable dream. When she had been younger, a warrior of summer, she had thought that it could be one attained with skill. But even when she was lifted to Renly’s Kingsguard as Brienne the Blue, she was never given the honor of being a knight.

They moved well, Pod seeming to produce some things he hadn’t in his other spars today. Was it because of who he was facing? It was obvious Jaime had been trying to train his off hand in these intervening years, but he had certainly lost the grace that she witnessed that day on the bridge. His left arm was strong, and as much as he struck with confidence, it was nothing to the memory of how his right had been a deadly extension of himself that day.

She felt the corner of her mouth tick up. For all that skill, Brienne had still bested him. He who was considered the greatest knight in the kingdom. Though she wondered if she could have if he had not been languishing in chains for more than a year prior.

She shook off the introspection and refocused on their spar. There were a spots where she’d definitely be telling Pod to adjust. Jaime had the counters and offense correct now that his footing was back on track, but she could see him getting cocky. Cocky would get him killed when fighting the army they were going to be facing.

And as if she was channeling the strange visions of Bran Stark, she watched as Jaime let that cockiness get the better of him. It was a move he had used on her on the bridge, and it had been effortless then. But here, his arm did not respond how it once had, and Pod took the advantage.

A moment later she watched her squire standing over Jaime, sword pointed down at him. Something in her felt terribly sad, and terribly afraid. That spell was broken when Jaime started laughing.

Brienne took a step forward, then paused at the short conversation that transpired between Pod and Jaime. When he said, "Be sure that when they mark my demise, they write the words: 'The last stand of Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer, felled by his own hubris,'" something in her grew angry.

Not a fire that consumed, but a cold anger. When he called out to her, her face was a grim mask, "Not as soft as you might have believed, is he? There's little showmanship in his form, rather like your own. That's a good thing. Perhaps I should have been under your instruction these past years, as well."

Part of her wanted to hold that compliment -- for what else could that be called -- to her heart. But to hear him mention his own death so casually had stricken her in a strange way. She marched up to the both, saying nothing until she was standing next to Podrick. “Get back to work.”

Turning back to Jaime, “You likely should have, Ser. But we don’t have the luxury of years here, do we? The dead…” she took in a stabilizing breath, “are unlike any opponent you or I have ever faced. There is no hesitation, they will run straight into your blade to get to your throat.”

She took a step back, unleashing Oathkeeper from its scabbard, “You’re good, Ser Jaime. Maybe not as good as the first time we fought, but you need to let go of your flourish in the fight to come.”

Brienne took a stance eerily similar to the one she had when he had stolen her spare sword on the bridge, waiting only until the moment it became clear that she meant to spar with him here and now before she went on the offensive.

 

\- 11 -  
JAIME

Her countenance was grim, and there was something uniquely troubling in those sapphire eyes. Surely she wasn’t doubting the boy. Her words when he’d approached had been hard, unwilling to admit even the smallest improvements, but he knew she saw them. If she focused on his faults, it was only because she wanted him to live. 

And Jaime could almost believe he would. Between the two of them, it seemed he had the best odds. 

As she sent Pod back to his work and spoke directly to him, he realized perhaps that was exactly the issue. 

“You likely should have, Ser. But we don’t have the luxury of years here, do we? The dead…” her whole body moved with the weight of that breath, “are unlike any opponent you or I have ever faced. There is no hesitation, they will run straight into your blade to get to your throat.”

“You’re _angry_ with me,” he realized, not bothering to disguise his surprise, nor his amusement. 

Amusement that was largely directed at himself, because he’d somehow failed to even consider the idea that she might be angry with _him_. For not taking this seriously, perhaps. Brienne was a damnably serious person, though he oft’ suspected there was levity beneath the surface. Buried deep, no doubt, but there. 

She took a step back from him, and had she not adopted a fighter’s stance immediately, he would have assumed she intended to leave him there. Instead she slid Oathkeeper from its scabbard, filling the courtyard with the satisfying sound of polished steel moving smoothly across leather. 

“You’re good, Ser Jaime. Maybe not as good as the first time we fought, but you need to let go of your flourish in the fight to come.”

She meant to spar with him. The delight he felt at that should have been shameful, had he anything resembling shame. She’d bested him once, and he’d had two hands to work with then. Out of practice and woefully malnourished for over a year, true, but he suspected she still would have fought him until they were both breathless. 

Now she was likely to run him into the ground, but Jaime was still eager for it. To be matched with a strong, competent fighter. Nothing more. 

Despite her words, he twirled Widow’s Wail in his hand until he held it at proper stance, the blade extended, his eyes on hers. “And what is the Golden Lion of Lannister without his flourish?”

He barely managed to get the words out before she came at him. There was no subtle test, no warning strike. She swung at him with a power that was to be envied, and it was all Jaime could do to block. 

“You don’t grimace anymore,” he noted, gritting his teeth as he raised his sword again, scraping it against hers. “When you lunge.” 

 

\- 12 -  
BRIENNE

“You’re _angry_ with me,” he said, and she almost swung at him then, instead of waiting. Of course she was angry at him. Positively livid that he would treat his life with so little regard. Especially after all she had done to make sure he lived through losing his hand. She had watched him starting to waste, that proud lion turning into a mewling kitten waiting for death. There’d be none of that here.

It also irked her that he found it funny, as if death or her anger was something to be amused by.

“And what is the Golden Lion of Lannister without his flourish?” he said, making Widow’s Wail dance in his hand. 

She came at him as he was resettling the sword in his grip, a hard swing down, her weight behind it. Brienne thrived in this, and knew to keep her anger in check, lest she cut off his other hand by accident.

“A living one,” she spat through her teeth when he blocked her swing.

There swords were held cross and she pushed forward to try and break the block. Of course he just kept on talking. 

“You don’t grimace anymore,” he pushed back against her strength, “When you lunge.”

“Seven hells,” she hissed, jumping back but rejoining the fray just as quickly. Brienne planned to be relentless, to show him that he had to take this seriously. Because it was serious. It was the difference between being alive and being dead.

Inside her armored heart though, she heard a soft whisper, _You must live, Jaime._

 

\- 13 -  
JAIME

She’d refused to engage with him on the bridge, too. But when he’d spoken there, it’d been out of arrogance. When he pulled that sword from her, he’d thought she might put up some resistance. She’d won a place in Renly’s Kingsguard, such as it was, and Catelyn Stark would not have charged someone wholly incompetent with being his captor. 

He was _Jaime Lannister_ , though. Widely regarded as one of the best swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms, if not the best. He’d dedicated his life to his family first, to the blade second. There was pride in what he’d accomplished--more than his due, perhaps--and he’d let that pride rule his actions that day. 

Had he been more humble, more cautious, more willing to take her seriously from the start, perhaps he would have bested her on that bridge. Had he done any of that, Brienne would be dead right now. The man he’d been would not have hesitated in killing her, even if he’d felt a flicker of remorse after. 

All he’d wanted was to get back to Cersei, after all. 

Bile welled in his throat at the thought of all the things he’d done--or certainly would have done--for her. His loathing was directed inward, toward the miserable creature he’d hoped he’d somehow locked away upon reaching Winterfell. A vain hope, though perhaps he should have found promise in the fact that the notion of who he’d been made him ill now. 

Whatever center he’d found was destroyed, though, and he was barely able to keep up with Brienne’s aggression as she came at him again, unrelenting in her attacks. It almost seemed as if this bout of introspection on his part was feeding her anger, and Jaime might have laughed if he wasn’t busy deflecting her blows, his arm braced, muscles held tight to ward himself against the sheer strength of her strikes. 

She barked something at him about attacking in turn; not remaining passive. Anger flared within Jaime, too, and he met her hardened gaze with his own. She’d scarcely given him room to breathe. She knew he wasn’t the fighter he’d once been, and still she was demanding more of him. 

_You put yourself under her command, you fool. You don’t get to feel angry about this._

And yet what else could it be called, when he used the weight of his body to shove her back, then lunged at her with a snarl. Jaime had never been one to shout and grunt and carry on like some untempered berserker when he fought, but it was raw emotion that guided him now, not pride or arrogance. 

He beat her back, slashing downward in graceless cleaves that would have left him open for counterattack had he given himself a moment to catch his breath. Unable to draw from his training in the moment--because even now, she wasn’t giving him that chance--Jaime instead attacked as though not doing so would mean his death. 

As they crossed swords again, their twin blades meeting in violent fury, he realized _that was the point_. He could see it in her eyes. She wasn’t angry with him for being flippant; for not taking their preparations seriously. She was angry because of what it might mean if he continued to do so. 

Jaime was caught so utterly off guard by that thought. So much so that when she pushed him back, he was nearly sent sprawling. One of his boots sought purchase on the muddy ground and he was able to get his sword up to ward off her advance, but little more. 

“You can’t stop it,” he told her, taking no pleasure in doing so. “If the dead take me, it won’t be through any fault of yours.” 

 

\- 14 -  
BRIENNE

“Stop defending, and fight back!” Brienne yelled, swinging one strike after another at him. Knowledge of the weight of her sword, its perfect arc, and where best to strike was the only way she wasn’t actually wounding him right now. Valyrian steel was sharper than any other metal, and it would be easy to harm him with a misstep.

Her words, or her attack, finally seemed to be getting through to him. Anger flared in his eyes, _Good. Use it._

He shoved her back, and they rejoined not a moment later. Strike met with strike, both of them seasoned warriors, doing a dance that few could with such skill. It wasn’t a graceful art, this particular dance, but it was efficient and effective.

Brienne had never heard him yell like that, but she had only seen him fight a few times. Even when he had risked his prideful neck for her in the bear pit, his words were what spilled from his mouth, not the raw rage of battle.

That rage was here now, and he grunted and howled along with her. She felt her blood singing in her ears, never letting his strikes get through her guard. And Jaime, he did the same. Neither really gave ground for a long moment. No retreats, just clashing steel and the slow circle of the dance.

Then something distracted him. A wayward thought, someone in the crowd that had begun to form around them? She wasn’t sure at first, and he staggered back from one of her blows. He was speaking as she moved in to strike again.

“You can’t stop it,” he said, breath as ragged as hers, “If the dead take me, it won’t be through any fault of yours.”

Brienne barely shook her head, howled at him again, and sent a swift kick to his chest that he was unprepared to block, knocking him to the ground. Oathkeeper was pointed at his face as she looked down at him across it’s length.

“No, but it would be yours. Every man here is preparing for the eventuality of their death, from pauper to lord. And every one must fight to their last breath. You asked to be under my command, and I agreed. But if you won’t fight your hardest to keep yourself alive, then I don’t need you,” There was pain and anger in her eyes as she said it, the sword staying pointed at him.

 

\- 15 -  
JAIME

He’d thought he understood. 

She counted Renly’s death as one of her greatest failures. She’d vowed to protect him, would have given her life for him, and he’d died anyway. That was the way of things, but Brienne held her oaths closer to her than anyone he’d ever met. And in her way, she’d made one to him. 

Perhaps when she’d taunted him into living, into fighting, once he’d become completely despondent after losing his hand. Perhaps she’d sworn it silently, to whatever gods would listen, because if he’d let himself waste away, she’d never fulfill the oath she’d pledged to Catelyn Stark. 

It made _sense_ to him, in a way few things did. He wasn’t worth her oaths, but he understood them. Or so he’d thought. 

That inhuman howl of rage that tore from her and the powerful kick that followed told him otherwise. Jaime could not have prepared for it in any fashion. Her boot hit him square in the chest, the wind slammed out of him as he was propelled to the ground. He groaned when his back hit the cold earth, Widow’s Wail scattering out of his hand as if fleeing from whatever he was about to endure.

“No, but it would be yours,” she told him, Oathkeeper poised at his face. He followed the gleaming blade, finding her eyes were filled with more than just anger. “Every man here is preparing for the eventuality of their death, from pauper to lord. And every one must fight to their last breath. You asked to be under my command, and I agreed. But if you won’t fight your hardest to keep yourself alive, then I don’t need you,”

There was no taunt he could raise to that, and nothing to say in his own defense. Jaime was stricken absolutely dumb as he looked up at her, trying to decipher what was in her eyes. She seemed… Gods, she actually seemed _pained_. As if he’d hurt her in some way. Reminding her of her failures would hurt, even if that had never been his intention, but it wasn’t that. She’d rejected that so thoroughly that even Jaime could see there was something else.

 _You must live._

Words from years ago, spoken so fiercely he’d had no choice but to listen. She’d pushed him, goaded him, had done things for him no one else in the world would have done save perhaps his own mother. If it were only her oath, he wouldn’t have told her all of his horrific truths in those baths. If it were only her oath, he wouldn’t have ridden back for her, when he could have so easily gone to Cersei. If it were only her oath, he wouldn’t have given her the sword that was now inches away from his face. 

She didn’t want him dying. Gods only knew the reason, but it prompted him to finally speak, instead of just staring at her.

"I didn't come here to throw my life away," he said, a touch of surprise in his voice as though he were realizing it for the first time, himself. Perhaps he was. "I came here to do one of the only decent things I've done in years. Funny how all of those things seem to involve you." 

It was something he’d contemplated on the ride here. Something he’d wanted to say to her when he first saw her in the courtyard. Only a fraction of the words he _needed_ to say, and of course he’d only managed them once she’d knocked him to the ground. Only Jaime could find the humor in that.

There was no humor in him now, though. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Widow’s Wail. If he lunged, he could reach the hilt. He did so now, feeling the sharp point of Oathkeeper trace a line that instantly beaded red on his cheek. She hadn’t pulled the sword away; hadn’t seen his intention. 

She was in motion by the time he struck his own blade overhand to force hers aside. Every muscle in his body was going to be sore on the morrow, but for the moment, Jaime felt like he was twenty years younger. He sprang to his feet aided only by his legs and the taut muscles in his core. Slamming his golden hand into her blade, he made more space for himself and went back on the offensive. 

“If I live,” he told her, panting, “ _that_ will be your fault. You’re so very stubborn about these things. Couldn’t let me wallow in my own shit and misery back then, and you can’t even let me joke about it now.” 

Strike. Parry. Counter. There was a fondness in his words, but there was nothing tender or graceful about their spar. Blades crashed together as if they were desperate for this contact, and Jaime supposed they were. This had been building from the moment Ned Stark’s sword was melted down. 

From the moment he wrongly chose to return to Cersei instead of staying to fulfill his promise alongside Brienne. 

 

\- 16 -  
BRIENNE

Jaime didn’t answer her immediately, giving her that curious stare of his like he was trying to puzzle her out. In her mind, there was nothing to puzzle, she had spoken rather plainly.

"I didn't come here to throw my life away," she blinked at his words, not because he said them, but because he seemed shocked to have done it, "I came here to do one of the only decent things I've done in years. Funny how all of those things seem to involve you." 

That disarmed her a little. Not physically, of course, Oathkeeper stayed firm in her grasp, still pointed at his face, but her expression changed. Now she was the one searching his eyes trying to puzzle him out. Trying to figure out if there was disdain or insult meant behind those words.

She didn’t get the chance to think on it too long, as he dove to the side, her sword drawing a clean line across his cheek. Brienne took one step back, drawing in a surprised breath before finally realizing he meant to continue fighting.

Sword met sword again, and it was surprise enough that he was able to move the blade aside. Brienne was already moving back into her stance when he leapt to his feet as if he were a young man again, and as she came at him, her voice carrying loudly over the field in a yell, Oathkeeper caught on his golden hand.

Part of her mind latched onto that. He should replace the damn thing with something useful. But there wasn’t much time for thoughts, he was coming at her hard again, and she gave back as good as she got.

“If I live,” how he was even finding air for words, she didn’t know “ _that_ will be your fault. You’re so very stubborn about these things. Couldn’t let me wallow in my own shit and misery back then, and you can’t even let me joke about it now.” 

Brienne snapped before she could even think about the words, loud and brusque “Because your life isn’t a _joke_ , Jaime!”

Let it be her fault. She had been angry at his flippancy, but she also had a debt to this man as much as he had to her. He had _saved_ her from rape and death, he had trusted her with something no one else was privy to, and she had always done what she could to repay the favor. Bolstering him when he was near death, dealing with his literal shit when the Bloody Mummers would have let him wallow in it, and making sure he didn’t drown in the baths when he collapsed.

Admiration was born from stranger things, but she had seen what he had been at his lowest point and reminded him to fight. She’d do the same here, any way she knew how. Because he was a good man who had done some shitty things. That he needed a chance to continue making up for those sins, to have people see him for who he really was, and she was not ready to see him die.

Their blades made a strange song as they clashed, keening around them. She tried to focus on that sound, instead of her own desperate need to get through to him. And so she could distract herself from the fact he said all the good things he had done had always involved her…

 

\- 17 -  
JAIME

Her response was immediate, her voice carrying over the practice yard. “Because your life isn’t a _joke_ , Jaime!”

“It truly is,” came his quick answer, said on little more than reflex. 

As their blades met, he spoke from the place that had always come so easily to him--that coarse disregard for everything around him. Now it felt as though he had a great thorn in his paw that needed to be plucked before he could continue on. 

For the first time, Jaime realized they weren’t alone. Quite the opposite of that, in fact. He managed to push Brienne away in time to see Pod attempting to direct the gathered crowd elsewhere. He was having no luck with the task. Jaime certainly wouldn’t have missed this. Even as a participant, even in the midst of it he knew something was happening here that went beyond swordplay, beyond training.

He became somewhat more aware of what it was when he realized--all too late--that she’d _said his name_. His actual name. Not Kingslayer. Not Ser. Just Jaime, the very thing he’d wanted her to call him after he told her about Aerys and that moment when any innocence, any goodness that remained in him had burned away. 

That caught him out more than anything else. It was such a silly thing to affect him so, yet his footwork suffered, his strength waned, his stamina depleted too much to keep up with her. He’d allowed himself to be fueled by his emotions before, he realized. Now they were a great tumult, thrown into disarray by one word from her. 

And she remained as magnificent as ever, as though she were determined to get through to him with the clash of her blade against his. If she only knew it was her words--rarely spoken, when there was any alternative--that had disarmed him over the years. 

After that, it hardly took much effort at all for her to physically disarm him. Widow’s Wail was sent into the dirt, and Jaime held his hands up in surrender. “Mercy, my lady.” There was only the slightest trace of wryness in his tone. “You’ve made your point. You always do.” 

The last was said as another in-the-moment revelation. He hadn’t bent to retrieve his sword yet and remained simply staring at her until the moment when he felt too exposed, too vulnerable. His pulse raced, his breath coming in shallow bursts, and still all he could think, all he could focus on was that she’d called him by name. 

He wanted to remark on that, but what came out was something else he’d chosen not to think too hard on. “Why defend me, Brienne?” His voice was low, quiet. This wasn’t a conversation their onlookers needed to hear. “It’s enough of a risk to do so before the Dragon Queen, but to speak out against Lady Sansa, as well?” 

 

\- 18 -  
BRIENNE

“It truly is,” he retorted back at her just as effortlessly. It only fueled her to fight harder against him, to add more strength to every blow.

This damnable man. Had he so little regard for what the world would lose when he died? His infamy was his shield. It shielded the good man inside him, the one who came here to fight for the living, the one who had come back for her at Harrenhal, the one who had saved King’s Landing. Proud and fierce but wounded, he lashed out at himself as much as he did anyone else, and it made her heart break for him. But it also made her furious.

His guard started to weaken, though it was obvious he wasn’t doing it on purpose. She could tell when a man’s stamina was faltering. Still, she kept up her onslaught until he finally yielded, his sword clattering to the ground, “Mercy, my lady. You’ve made your point. You always do.”

Brienne took in great lungfuls of breath, staring at him, but let her sword point dip down and straightened from her fighting stance. Normally this was where she’d speak about form, or advise on defense. But she just stared at him, still wounded by how little regard he held his life. They both were locked in another one of those unfathomable moments where eyes said so much that was impossible to decipher.

He broke the spell, speaking low enough for only her to hear, “Why defend me, Brienne? It’s enough of a risk to do so before the Dragon Queen, but to speak out against Lady Sansa, as well?”

Was he really asking that? After everything, why she would stand and defend his life and his honor. Brienne had a distaste for word games, but it seemed fitting she give him one now, since he loved them so much, “Why stand between me and a bear, ser? How could I not offer the same thing you did for me then? To stand between the dragon’s breath and the wolves’ teeth to protect you when you’d done the same for me.”

She huffed, finally breaking his gaze and sheathing Oathkeeper. Another deep draw of breath, and her voice was louder, clearer, “You’ll train with Pod for two hours after breakfast and then with me after lunch every day until the battle arrives. You’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Brienne was aware of the eyes on them now, and tried not to let it bother her. Inside however, she was shaking. What had these men who were going to be following her into battle seen in their spar? Her voice rang out loud, “I thought I told you to get back to it. Show’s over!”

Some men lingered, but the rest began to filter back. Some were exchanging coin and she couldn’t help but grouse at that. When she turned back to Jaime, her brows knitted. He had called her _Brienne_. Not lady, not wench. And then it dawned on her she had called him Jaime in their exchange, and she felt like running straight through the gates of Winterfell.

Instead, she stood there, looking unsteady, waiting to see if he was going to press her or leave her. She wasn’t sure which she wanted from him.

 

\- 19 -  
JAIME

“Why stand between me and a bear, ser? How could I not offer the same thing you did for me then? To stand between the dragon’s breath and the wolves’ teeth to protect you when you’d done the same for me.”

Jaime was struck dumb. He practically gaped at her, his body not moving save for the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he tried in vain to catch his breath. He’d only ever known Brienne to speak plainly, even in matters that might have benefitted from more carefully-chosen words. What she said to him now underscored just how much of it was a choice. She was educated. She’d likely been taught the benefits of speaking one’s way out of a situation. She’d rejected that notion for much of her life, he imagined.

Why allow it now, to him of all people? Perhaps she was simply trying to get her point across, this time catching him unawares with her words instead of her sword. It had certainly worked. Several moments of processing, of staring at her as she stared back at him, and Jaime still had no response. 

_I came to Winterfell because of you._

No response he was prepared to voice, at least. 

Oathkeeper was returned to its scabbard, Brienne’s voice firm; commanding. “You’ll train with Pod for two hours after breakfast and then with me after lunch every day until the battle arrives. You’ve got a lot of work to do.”

He wasn’t entirely sure he could survive more bouts with her, if they were all going to end like this one. But he gave a respectful nod, visibly swallowing as no words came to him.

When her gaze finally broke from his, Jaime looked well away from her. He felt disoriented. Unsure of his footing. His gaze swept the grounds like a general surveying the hostile landscape. Men of the Vale were still gathered, with a few others in their midst. Up on the battlements, he caught a glimpse of Lady Sansa’s steady regard, the she-wolf’s eyes taking in more than they should. 

Most of the men returned to their training, the sound of steel ringing through the courtyard. A completely different sound than what had just occurred between their twin blades. Jaime’s gaze lifted to hers, then cut toward Widow’s Wail. He retrieved the sword and slid it back into its scabbard. 

“Tomorrow morning, then,” he said, though his eyes were still disinclined to leave hers. 

How much was he giving away, he wondered. Not enough. Surely she would have said something. She’d confronted him over the fact that he hadn’t _insulted_ her, Gods’ sake. But she said nothing now, and so Jaime just gave her a nod, his hand on the hilt of his sword. 

He walked past her, stopping only a few steps away. “Thank you,” he managed, before heading toward the inner bailey. 

 

\- 20 -  
BRIENNE

He at least affirmed her orders, giving her a nod as well as looking completely befuddled by her. Brienne wasn’t sure if she liked it when he grew quiet, having gotten so used to him letting his words flow like water.

He picked up his sword -- smaller than hers, but just as deadly -- eyes catching hers again. By the Seven, it was too cold for this nonsense, and before she barked at him to begone he finally spoke, “Tomorrow morning, then.”

Calm, quiet, no bite. No challenge, and her brows knit together. The look in his eyes thrilled and scared her, and she felt her jaw tighten to keep herself from saying something stupid. Blessedly he nodded and began to walk away, moving past her with a quiet, “Thank you.”

Brienne didn’t let herself watch him go. She kept her eyes on the men who were finally getting back to preparations and training. She took a few steps towards where Pod was guiding someone through proper swings, before she stopped.

Looking back, she didn’t seek him out. Her eyes moved to the battlements where she saw the bright red hair of her Lady billowing in the wind like a flag. She was too far away to read Sansa’s expression, but she could feel her eyes on her. Giving her a nod, she went back to work, expecting there would be quite a conversation when she spoke to her next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a bit of a delay between this "chapter" and the next (the knighting!), but it should hopefully come in the next few days. Let us know what you think in the meantime!


	3. A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neither of us were completely happy with how the show stumbled into the knighting, so we did something a little different.

\- 1 -  
BRIENNE

The next few days were very busy. Between organizing those under her command, afternoon training with Jaime, and attending Lady Sansa, there had been little time for herself. Not that she needed the downtime. Brienne certainly would rather keep busy than being idle, and had she found a moment to spare it would likely have been spent on more preparation for the fight to come.

There had been a moment on the first day that Lady Sansa had invited her to a private audience before the evening meal. Brienne had been questioned on Jaime’s abilities during the spar, why it seemed like a real fight instead of just training, and even though it was never plainly put, there had been questions about what Jaime was truly doing here. Her Lady was never rude, never callous, but there was a coldness in her when they spoke of Jaime.

Brienne had put everything out there bluntly, that she had no use for a soldier, even one she had proclaimed she would fight beside in front of all of them, that did not intend to fight for their life. She affirmed her point had been made and that he would remain under her command.

“Why do you care if he lives?” Lady Sansa’s question still reverberated through her days later.

As did her answer, “Because he cared that I did.”

It had been three days since that conversation, and Lady Sansa had not brought him up since. It worried at her gut, and made her wonder if her loyalty was in doubt. Nothing had changed in schedule, or how she was invited in to council, so she hoped that that wasn’t the case.

Despite her lack of downtime, that didn’t mean her mind did not wander. It wandered the most when she was training with Jaime. Memories of what they had went through together constantly moving through her mind. The things he had done for _her_. How she became an extension of his own oaths to Catelyn Stark. How he had come North at her prodding.

He never explicitly said it, but the look he had given her that day, when he said things went beyond loyalty, Brienne knew that moment in the Dragon Pit had gotten through to him. That despite not having anyone at his back, he walked into the den of the enemy to do what he knew was right. As much as Jaime might deny it, he was a good man.

There were other thoughts too, unbidden ones that she tried to push way down inside her. Things she refused to hope for, or even desire, because Brienne knew that wasn’t something that was ever meant for her. She had accepted her life as a warrior, upholding the ideals of a knight, and rejected the hope that she might ever find someone who could love her as she had once hoped to be loved.

But there were times, during or right after a spar, where Jaime would give her a look, and she felt her heart flutter. Brienne had seen people in love, seen how their eyes would light up or their expressions would change into something strange. And oftentimes, she’d see those looks mirrored in his face when he looked at her and lost his words. 

She dismissed it despite how it would make her feel because Jaime was in love with Cersei, she had borne his children, and they had spent their entire lives together. He never talked about it, really. But his decision to stay at her side in King’s Landing and send Brienne in his stead to fill oaths that were contradictory to the Queen’s wishes made it obvious he wished not to be parted from her. And Brienne had her own oaths to the Starks now, whatever happened.

If they survived this, he would ride south -- if the Dragon Queen didn’t burn him alive -- and be at his sister’s side once more.

That third day, not long after their training, Brienne was lost in thought about those future circumstances, hoping that they lived, but also wishing it would never come.

Then the Wildlings and the brothers of the Night Watch arrived.

The dead were on their way. The training schedule she had laid out dramatically shifted. Any preparations that hadn’t been completed were manned with every available person, and even Brienne found herself digging part of the trench that would hopefully keep the dead at bay.

When night fell, and everything was as complete as it could be, everyone was ordered to take rest. If the dead arrived before the morning, they’d need it.

Unfortunately, the news made it difficult for many to find rest, including Brienne. Pod attended her like usual, and it was easy to see everyone milling about, seeking out loved ones and trying to put things right while there was still time.

She hadn’t seen Jaime, and it worried her. _It would be unbecoming to ask after him_ , she thought. He was near universally despised here at Winterfell, and with the looming battle ahead, she did not want to create ire between her and someone who might be guarding her back tonight.

So instead, she moved inside the keep, seeking out a quieter room to get warm and go over some finer points of strategy with Podrick. Every room they paused at seemed to be filled with people, some desperately trying to find a private moment in this strange quiet before the storm. Finally, she found a room that seemed empty save for two people, the fire backlighting them and making it hard to discern if it was someone she knew.

Since it was a nearly empty room, she did not think whoever it was would mind a few more people warming by the large hearth so she guided Podrick in with her. That’s when she noticed that one of the people was much smaller than the other, and it dawned on her it was Tyrion, which meant…

Ser Jaime scrambled to his feet, chair scratching along the stones of the floor, a cup in one hand, “My lady.”

Of course she found him, out of all the rooms and hearths in Winterfell, she ended up choosing the one he was in.

“ _Oh_ ,” was her first response as she slowed her gait, “Sorry to interrupt, we were just looking for someplace warm…”

 

\- 2 -  
JAIME

Had Jaime been someone different, he might have prioritized what was likely his last night alive. There were things he needed to say, things he needed to do, and none of it could truly wait any longer. But when Jon Snow’s band of wildlings and other assorted misfits returned, bringing with them the news that they’d see the Night King’s army well before dawn, he’d felt both restless and paralyzed at the same time.

It was such a strange thing. Jaime was not someone who hesitated often, yet he found himself stricken into inaction. Second-guessing every wayward thought he had, to the point where he did absolutely nothing but wander aimlessly. If he hadn’t stumbled across Tyrion, he might still be wandering now, instead of sitting beside one of the people he needed to say things to, an earthenware cup in one hand. 

He stared at the fire, wondering when he’d become so craven. The brothers had lapsed into silence several minutes before, and it was Tyrion who broke it. 

“I wish father were here.” 

It was such an unexpected statement that Jaime was pulled from his own bout of self-pity, his green eyes falling upon Tyrion. 

“I would love to see the look on his face when he realizes his two sons are about to die defending Winterfell,” his brother clarified, a touch of that wry humor in his voice.

Jaime snorted, imagining the stern face of Tywin Lannister as he regarded them now. Hopefully from the depths of Hell. “That would be something to see.” 

Certainly not the first time either he or Tyrion had been an abject disappointment to their father. As unfamiliar as these circumstances were, Tywin’s response would not have been.

“I remember the first time we were here, the first time I saw this hall,” Tyrion drank, wine dribbling into that bushy, _northern_ beard he’d managed to grow, “You were a golden lion. I was a drunken whore-monger. It was all so simple.” 

Jaime looked down at his cup, his smile not reaching his eyes. “It was never simple. I was sleeping with my sister, and you had one friend in the world,” his brow arched, “who was sleeping with his sister.” 

Tyrion waved this off. “I was speaking in relative terms.” 

At one time, he might have believed it was that simple. He’d only ever wanted one thing, and in some ways, he’d had it. The woman he loved was with another man, yes, but she had no love for Robert Baratheon. Jaime was the one she came to when she was feeling lonely. It was his bed she returned to, time and again.

But that was the only place she’d ever been his, and the only reason she ever sought him out, much of the time. When Robert was off rutting on top of one of his many whores like the sad, drunk stag he’d become, Cersei came to him. He’d taken pride in that once. Thought it was love. 

He didn’t know what it was now, but it had never been simple. 

“Do you miss it?” he asked, already having found his own answer.

Tyrion’s agitation made it clear they differed on that point. “Of _course_ I miss it.” 

“Well,” he eased back in his chair, stretching his sore muscles, “my golden lion days are done, but whore-mongering is still an option for you.” 

“It’s not. Things would be easier if it were.” There was a quiet note of acceptance to his brother’s voice, and Jaime decided not to pry. He saw Tyrion lift his cup shortly after. “To the perils of self-betterment.” 

Jaime lifted his own cup, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. He drank deep, the shit wine they’d found barely enough to intoxicate a flea, he was fairly sure. Wherever it’d come from, whatever stores Lady Sansa was drawing from, he would wager much of the alcohol being circulated throughout Winterfell was younger than the youngest Stark. 

A tragedy, really.

“Speaking of self-betterment,” Tyrion wiped wine away from his mouth, “how is your training coming along?”

Jaime was tempted to show him the many bruises upon his person, all of them darkening into ugly colors now. Not since he was a boy had he been smacked so much with the flat of a blade. 

“As well as it can, considering.” He rested his cup upon his knee, his gaze returning to the fire. “It’s sorely needed. I’ve been out of practice.” 

“Mm. So out of practice you let Lady Brienne kick you to the ground, as I hear it.” 

He cast a casual, sidelong glance at his brother, his eyes narrowing just so. “Do they really have nothing better to talk about here?”

Tyrion’s brows lifted in amusement. “It’s the North, so no. And the rumors of the infamous Kingslayer following someone around like a lost puppy are difficult to resist.” Jaime scoffed. “So unfathomable that I was reluctant to believe them myself. ...Until you utterly abandoned me mid-conversation.” 

“I was admiring the fighting style of the Vale,” Jaime said drily. 

“I’m sure.” Tyrion contemplated his cup for a moment, then grunted as he pushed himself to his feet, fetching the jug. “Are we to act as tittering ladies’ maids, then? I ask whom you fancy, you blush and look away.” 

Jaime rolled his eyes. “You’re a miserable drunk, you know that?” 

“I’m not drunk,” Tyrion clarified, his lips twisting into a wry smile, “but I am miserable. Thank you for noticing.” 

He returned with the jug, topping off Jaime’s cup, then his own. After another sip, he filled it again, then returned the jug to its place before rejoining his brother. 

“Who would have thought Jaime Lannister would pine after a woman most people don’t even consider as such.” 

He bristled at that, his fingers tensing around his cup. There was a phantom itch in his nonexistent right hand, the urge to go for his sword, as if he truly intended to defend her _honor_ before his brother. 

“Most people are fucking idiots,” he said instead, “myself included.” 

“Hear hear,” Tyrion lifted his cup once more. Jaime didn’t return the salute this time. “Though it is curious which point you chose to challenge.” 

He’d thought his brother might insist on waxing morose about the past for the entirety of their time together. That would have been bad enough, but this was infinitely worse. Lifting his cup to his lips, Jaime contemplated leaving. As if he had anywhere to go.

“So.” Tyrion’s gaze settled upon him, his expression as serious as that garish scar would allow him to look. “What are you going to do about it?” 

“About what?” 

“In case you haven’t noticed, the dead are almost upon us. There is an excellent chance we will all die tonight,” he offered that statement with far more good cheer than was warranted, “if you wish to be the type of man who rides in at the eleventh hour, now is the time.” 

“I’m not that man,” Jaime muttered, averting his gaze.

“You could be.” 

Something about that sparked his ire. The idea that he would say something not before, not even during the past three days, but _now_ , when there was nothing to be done about it. When the consequences of doing so were virtually nonexistent. 

“Not with her,” there was a bit of a growl to his voice, and he saw Tyrion’s brows lift. “She deserves more than me fumbling through whatever idiocy is sure to come out of my mouth.” 

“I think she rather expects your idiocy by this point.” 

“She doesn’t. She was quick to point out we’ve rarely had a conversation that does not involve me mocking her in some way,” Jaime said, the words leaving an awful taste in his mouth. 

“You could always find a way to speak to her that _doesn’t_ sound like mockery, you know,” Tyrion mused. 

He could. He’d tried and she’d been immediately suspicious. What would she possibly think if he sought her out now and told her… whatever it was he intended to tell her? 

“...You don’t know _how_ , do you?” The amusement in his brother’s voice made him half tempted to strangle him with his useless golden hand. “All this time, it’s never occurred to me that you’ve never had to _try_ , not once. You have no idea how to woo anyone.” 

“And you do?” Jaime snapped. “You’ve spent your entire life with whores.” 

He regretted the words as soon as he said them, but Tyrion merely shrugged. 

“Just because there’s coin involved doesn’t mean the effort is wasted. Look at me,” he gestured to the entirety of his person, “my charm is all I have. Aside from my cock.” He raised his cup to his lips again, his eyes fairly sparkling over the brim of it. “Have you tried that method?” 

“Honestly I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Jaime said on a weary exhale.

“Not to worry, brother.” Tyrion reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll be dead soon enough.” 

Ice settled in the pit of his stomach, the sickening rush of dread accompanying it. Hit gut twisted as he looked at his brother, a line creasing a deep furrow into his brow. He’d meant to say things. Better things. 

“Tyrion…” 

The smile was slight. Sad. The words that accompanied it were brief, but weighty. “I know.” 

The fire crackled. Moments ago he’d thought the chamber too warm. Now all he could feel was the icy bite of the reality they’d soon face. He couldn’t imagine life beyond tonight. If he somehow survived, he’d be burning the bodies of people he cared about soon enough. 

As that thought sunk into his mind, the heavy door opened. Jaime looked over his shoulder, expecting to find a few soldiers seeking to ward off frostbite and loneliness. But it wasn’t some nameless northerner who met his gaze. Sapphire eyes stared at him, widening ever so slightly. 

Jaime scrambled to his feet, for no good reason that he could discern. He thought he heard a soft snort from his brother. He ignored it. “My lady.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” The inflection on that one word gave him pause. “Sorry to interrupt, we were just looking for someplace warm…”

“...to contemplate your imminent death,” Tyrion finished cheerily, rising from his seat once more. “You’ve come to the right place.” He made his way over to the table again, shaking the jug, his gaze directed at Pod. “You want some of this piss? It’s not bad. It’s not good, either.”

Podrick seemed eager to indulge, though Brienne was quick to point out the foolishness inherent in that idea. Still standing, Jaime shook his own cup, wine sloshing within.

“It’s hardly stronger than water. It’s embarrassing, honestly.” 

“As a great many things are,” Tyrion said pointedly, bringing forth another cup as he addressed Brienne. “Wine?” 

She declined, making a motion for what she _should_ be doing, even if her tone wasn’t terribly convincing. It was enough to get Jaime to fetch two chairs and bring them before the fire, though, arranging them in a semi-circle. 

“Do you really think any of us are going to sleep tonight?” He pulled out her chair specifically. “Join us.” 

His gaze was more imploring than he was comfortable with, but at least if she was here, he’d… what? He certainly wasn’t going to say anything to her now, with an audience that included his brother and her squire. 

“Yes!” Tyrion agreed, handing the cup to Pod. Jaime could see from here that it was filled to the top. “Join us in contemplating what all dying men contemplate: The wasted opportunities of our miserable lives.” 

 

\- 3 -  
BRIENNE

Tyrion offered them wine after making a quip. Brienne wondered if all Lannisters were brought up to have sharp tongues.

She waved him off, giving Pod a stern look, “The battle may be upon us soon, we should have our wits.”

The young man looked a bit deflated, then turned to Tyrion with a shrug. The brothers bantered about the strength of the wine, and Brienne was trying to decide if they should just leave them to it. Certainly Ser Jaime would want these moments alone with his kin, not someone who had beat him black and blue over the past few days.

“Do you really think any of us are going to sleep tonight?” He stood over the chair he moved over next to where he had been sitting, acting like a gentleman encouraging his lady to sit. She drew in a great breath through her nose as he continued, “Join us.” 

His voice was not quite a plea, but definitely genuine. It was his eyes that looked like he was afraid she’d reject the offer, “Alright, just a bit. Even if the wine is weak we shouldn’t drink too much.”

To have her senses dulled when the dead arrived would assure that she’d be joining them before the sun came up. She took the seat, back straight and watched Tyrion pour Pod his cup. 

“Yes! Join us in contemplating what all dying men contemplate: The wasted opportunities of our miserable lives.” Tyrion’s humor in the face of death could be considered brave. Everyone coped in their own way, and she let the corners of her mouth turn up in a small smile. They were definitely brothers, he and Jaime.

He passed a cup her way, and she held it, not sipping immediately. The fire was warm, and as everyone settled into their seat. Brienne was uncertain in situations like this, and she couldn’t talk to Pod the way she had intended. Though, perhaps they all needed to get their mind off the battle. She glanced over at Jaime, who was looking at her pensively, before she dropped her eyes to the cup in her hands.

Tyrion cleared his throat, but as he did the side door opened up.

“Ser Davos, welcome, have a drink with us,” Tyrion greeted the man. 

Brienne liked Ser Davos, despite the fact he had once served Stannis, the kinslayer. Brienne’s fingers flexed thinking about how she had taken his life for the life he stole from Renly. But Davos was a kind man, and very prudent. They had gotten on well enough over the past few months.

“No thank you, I came here for this,” He was already standing in front of the hearth, hands at his back, seeking out the warmth. He said something else, but Brienne was instantly distracted by the large looming Wildling that had followed in after him.

He towered above her seat, smiling down at her with half disguised lust. Brienne had never given the man any hope for that kind of familiarity, and while she thought him a competent fighter, she found his manners quite disgusting.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t school her face completely, trying her best to be polite thought her expression was rather dour. He seemed to be more oblivious on social cues than herself in that moment, and he spoke to her with his gravelly voice, “Could be our last night in this world, you know.”

“Yes, well.. I’m glad you’re here…” Wait, that sounded like she actually wanted his advances, “I mean, I’m glad you’re fighting with us, that you survived Eastwatch.”

She had to turn her face away from him, and finally she took a drink of her wine to distract herself. He honed in on Jaime, saying something about him being a King Killer. Brienne was too lost in trying to ignore that Tormund was there, at least until he started telling his story.

He was so enthusiastic about his tale, it was engrossing and disgusting at the same time, and she found herself grimacing as he talked about being suckled by a giantess. The way his eyes flicked to hers when he said it made Brienne want to leap from her seat and leave the hall right then.

But then Tormund chugged whatever was in his horn, and it looked like… milk? Brienne actually felt her stomach trying to turn sour as the smell reached her. The spell of that sight was broken, thankfully by Ser Davos speaking up.

“I think I’ll have that drink,” and the Onion Knight moved to the table and picked up a cup.

 

\- 4 -  
JAIME

He'd hoped it might just stay the four of them. That would have been a fine way to pass the time. Tyrion doing his best to break the tension and make remarks that were far less clever than he believed. Pod looking between the lot of them, that ever-present smile on his face. Brienne staring stoically at the fire, her hand never leaving that damned lion pommel. 

Perhaps it _was_ for the best that Ser Davos showed up, though Jaime wasn't entirely sure he could extend that sentiment to the Wildling who inexplicably followed. He might have been fine as an entity set apart from the others, making a mild spectacle of himself just by existing in this world. But he wasn't merely existing here. He took a direct path toward the fire, standing in front of Brienne and leering at her. 

It caught Jaime off guard. Most men who looked at Brienne for longer than a few moments did so with a sneer on their lips and pure malice in their eyes. Tormund Giantsbane--for who else could this great, flame-haired beast be--looked at her with undisguised lust in his eyes, and it sparked something particularly ugly within Jaime. There was a strong part of him that was tempted to rise, put himself between the two of them, and tell this Wildling that Brienne of Tarth, only living heir to Lord Selwyn Tarth, The Evenstar, was a _lady_ , not a common whore to be so openly lusted after. 

But to do so would make him something of a hypocrite, wouldn't it? Any lust he felt might have been kept private--since that surprising instance of it at the baths in Harrenhal--but his _interest_ was obvious enough to Tyrion. Obvious enough that others had begun to call her Kingslayer's Whore what felt like a lifetime ago now.

At least the Wildling was honest. That was more than Jaime could say for himself. And perhaps his attention wasn't unwelcome, because Brienne's response was... curious. 

“Yes, well.. I’m glad you’re here…” Jaime canted his head just so, trying to disguise the twitch in his jaw, “I mean, I’m glad you’re fighting with us, that you survived Eastwatch.”

That was unsettling, to say the least, and it bothered him more than he wished to admit. Perhaps it was just that Brienne was unsure how to firmly reject the undisguised interest of suitors who wanted more from her than the Sapphire Isles. Or perhaps she was interested, in return, and flustered simply because it was all on public display. Gods. He really was turning into a blushing lady's maid. Jaime drank deep, trying to banish the thoughts, his gaze cutting to the Wildling as he felt the man's bright blue eyes bore into him. 

What followed was quite possibly the most disgusting story he'd ever heard. He openly grimaced, and saw Brienne do so as well, once or twice. There was something in her eyes that told him she preferred to be anywhere but here, and that gave him some shred of hope to soothe what was certainly not jealousy on his part.

"Is that story meant to intimidate me?" Jaime asked, pressing his luck.

"I just want you to know that I will _fight_ , King Killer." He lifted his drinking horn, enough liquid inexplicably left inside to spill out the top. "And I will win." 

He couldn't be sure Tormund was speaking of Brienne. The fact that he might be made Jaime bristle, though. He wasn't going to engage in this; wasn't going to fight over her as though they were at a tourney attempting to curry favor. The only contest he was prepared to entertain was one for which Tormund Giantsbane was woefully unequipped. Lucky for the Wildling, there wasn't time for proper courtship.

 _As if you would even know how to begin. Tyrion was right. You're terrible at this._

"I hear they also call you Sister Fucker," the man commented, and this time Jaime's fingers flexed over the pommel of Widow's Wail. Instinct alone. The reaction of a trained fighter hoping to defend himself. He didn't intend to use it. 

"They call me a great many things." 

"Thank you for providing an excellent segue, my friend," Tyrion said to the Wildling. Whether he was able to sense the tension or merely wanted away from this conversation, Jaime was grateful for it. "We are meant to be speaking of our deepest regrets, after all." 

Jaime drew in a sharp inhale, green eyes fixing on his brother as if in warning. This was too far. There were some things he had no intention of discussing this publicly, and his own personal crisis over how badly he'd let himself be led astray was one of them. 

"Ser Davos!" 

The old knight's visage grew stony, though there was a deep sadness in his eyes as he took his seat. "I'm not playing this game." 

"Oh, very well. I will start." Tyrion lounged in his chair like a lion basking in the midday sun. "My deepest regret..." 

Jaime expected something with cheek to it; something that masked Tyrion's true feelings, caging it behind his wit as always. But the somber look that settled on his features was... terrifying, frankly. 

"I never should have sent Myrcella to Dorne." 

He drew in another sharp breath, feeling as though his heart had been pierced. For several moments, Jaime couldn't breathe. He knew what he _should_ say, but it took an eternity to get there, and he looked down at his cup in the meantime.

"We're raised in the midst of this. Raised to see no fault in children being used for political machinations," Tyrion said dourly. "That doesn't make it right. I never should have sent her into that pit of vipers. I knew it would end poorly." 

"No one could have known," Jaime said, the words tight, his throat closing around them.

" _I_ should have. And I'm sorry for that." 

Even though he wasn't looking, he could feel Tyrion's eyes on him. The prideful part of Jaime wanted to snarl and throw those words back in his brother's face. But he cast a glance to Brienne, and he knew what needed to be said. 

It was the end of the world, after all. If he could leave his brother with a slightly clearer conscience, it was his duty to do so.

"I don't blame you," he said, finally lifting his eyes to Tyrion. 

"Well, that makes one of us," his brother muttered, taking another drink. Silence stretched on, darker and more oppressive than the night that lay ahead of them. When it was finally broken, Tyrion's voice was clear, full of that biting humor once more. "Tormund Giantsbane. Surely you must have one regret." 

 

\- 4 -  
BRIENNE

"Is that story meant to intimidate me?" Brienne closed her eyes, tiling her head back as Jaime engaged with Tormund. _Seven take me._

Tormund was a good warrior, fierce and strong. But he boasted, told tall tales, and was more free with his expression than any person she had ever met. Brienne had respect for him, but also a fair amount of distaste at his personality. She had hoped someone would shift the spotlight from him, but unfortunately something stirred Ser Jaime to continue this conversation.

"I just want you to know that I will _fight_ , King Killer." Her hand tightened around Oathkeeper’s hilt, her other balling into a fist on her thigh as Tormund spoke. She’d seen men act like idiots before, she just didn’t think she’d ever be directly in the middle of the crossfire. "And I will win."

Thankfully, Jaime didn’t seem to respond to the taunt, whatever it meant. At least, until Tormund couldn’t keep his mouth shut and she heard the tension in Jaime’s words. "They call me a great many things."

Would that she could grow wings and take flight out of this room.

And that was when Tyrion stepped in, and she would have thanked him if how he redirected the conversation to something she certainly didn’t want to talk about. Death may be looming, but Brienne kept her regrets close to her heart. Each one a wound that had never properly healed.

He pushed for the Onion Knight’s tale, and was rebuffed. Good, precedent was set that she could follow. But then Tyrion, in strange honesty and without humor, decided to go first.

"I never should have sent Myrcella to Dorne."

Brienne heard the draw of breath from Jaime and looked over at him. She knew that Myrcella had died on the boat back to King’s Landing, that Jaime had tried to bring her home. While they had never talked about his children with his sister, she could see there was pain in the memory. Tyrion continued on to why it was a regret, and the humor of the moment before was cut by the sadness that clung to the conversation.

Brienne’s eyes moved from brother to brother, worry etched on her features until Jaime absolved his brother, "I don't blame you."

Tyrion made it clear he still blamed himself, and there was a silence where she found herself looking at the firelight dancing off the stones of the floor, everyone drinking in silence now. It was Tyrion who once again broke the moment, turning his attention on Tormund.

"Tormund Giantsbane. Surely you must have one regret."

Brienne cast her eyes towards the wildling, expecting some vulgar joke or wild boast. But the man actually looked pensive. There was another long stretch of silence, and he spoke evenly, without the great boom or intimidation of before, “I regret outliving my children. They should have grown strong, all four of my sons and my daughter. But the dead claimed them for their own. They should be here with me now, fighting and singing.”

Brienne’s face softened at that, but it was Davos who actually spoke to the wilding, “It’s hard outliving them… we have to continue on so someone is left in the world to remember them.”

The two men shared a nod, and Brienne took a drink of her wine, thinking of her own father. Would he have to mourn her death?

For his part, Tyrion took a moment to not be irreverent, lifting his cup to Tormund, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Another moment of silence, as if no one wanted to go next, to voice their sorrow or regret. It came then once more to Tyrion to call someone out. He focused on his former squire, “Podrick, come join this misery. What is it that you regret?”

Pod’s mouth twisted to the side, and he shrugged at first, not answering. Then his eyes looked to Tyrion, “Not getting to you fast enough during the Battle of Blackwater, m’lord.”

Tyrion looked a little surprised, and he leaned over, placing his hand on Podrick’s shoulder, “You saved my life, Pod. Besides, these scars give me character, don’t you think?”

The young man nodded, a small smile on his face as he brought the wine cup to his lips again. Brienne gave him an empathetic nod. Unfortunately, she noticed when Tyrion’s eyes honed in on her. “And you, my Lady? Will you share in our mutual misery?”

Her and Pod’s eyes locked for a moment and their conversation from when they were travelling north came to her. Brienne could see that Pod was thinking the same thing.

_Nothing is more hateful than failing to protect the one you love._

She took in a deep breath, “I have a great many, my Lord, though I hope you understand if I keep the most tender of those pains close to my heart.”

Her eyes flickered around the room, realizing that everyone was looking at her. Another breath, “I would have to say at this moment I regret that I was unable to go see my father again before this. To go back to Tarth at least for a brief visit, and know if he was proud of what I had become.”

There was so many more painful ones than that however. Renly’s wide eyed shock as the shadow ran him through danced through her mind. The specter of Lady Catelyn’s death loomed nearby, along with the initial rejection of both of the Stark girls. She’d fulfilled her oath in the end, but only after great struggle and many roadblocks.

Brienne took a chance to look at Jaime, her expression both a little pained and sad. He’d lost his hand for her, and there were many nights she wished she could have prevented it.

 

\- 5 -  
JAIME

Jaime expected some kind of boast--for Tormund to assert that he had no regrets. Fair chance the statement would involve fucking of some sort. But his tone grew just as somber as Tyrion’s, and when he spoke, Jaime felt a sense of kinship with this man.

They couldn’t have been more different from one another, yet in this horrible way, they were the same. It was a sentiment Jaime couldn’t even voice, given the nature of his children’s births. While rumors might exist all across Westeros--and Cersei had done nothing to quell them in the end, playing into Jaime’s last, dearest hopes--they didn’t deserve validation. Not even in the final hour. 

So he only nodded when Tyrion offered his sincere condolences, feeling the pain of that loss three times over. For as horrible as Joffrey was, he’d still been Jaime’s flesh and blood. It only brought him pain to witness his poison-bloated features, his eyes bulging out of their sockets, dusky fluid trickling out of every orifice. Myrcella and Tommen had been innocents, both of them. And both had suffered--and died--for his family’s sins rather than their own.

It was hard not to feel responsible. He’d given them all life, and while he’d never truly been allowed to care for them as his own, he should have protected them. Why hadn’t he been able to protect them? 

When she’d been at her most cruel, her most hateful, Cersei had asked him the same question. No more than Jaime had asked it of himself. 

Jaime withdrew, scarcely noticing the lull or the question to Podrick that followed. He stared at the crackling flames without truly seeing them, his mind hundreds of miles away. Not with Cersei this time. Not truly. It was just impossible not to think of all of his own mistakes, his many regrets as others spoke of theirs. 

It was Brienne’s voice that tore him away from that path, however. There was something strangely soothing in it, which he knew was absurd. There was nothing melodic in her tone, nothing that would offer any purposeful comfort. She was direct in most cases, caring little over the fragile feelings of those around her as they cared little for hers. While Jaime suspected she did care, quite a bit, she never made it _sound_ as though she did. Years of practice had helped her hone the edge of her voice into a weapon as fine as Oathkeeper, he imagined. 

But there was a richness in it that called to him; that made him take notice. It’d always been that way, though for the wrong reasons early on. He’d often tried to keep her talking just to marvel at the fact that she scarcely possessed any feminine qualities in her voice at all. Then he’d heard them, and wished he hadn’t. Her vulnerability, more than anyone else’s, threatened to crack him in two. 

There was a hint of it now. Enough that Jaime’s gaze came to rest on her, wondering what she might say. Would she speak of Renly? That was certainly the first thing that came to his mind. Something he’d deliberately used to wound her, and the first way in which he’d found common ground. Perhaps she would speak of Catelyn Stark, though that seemed unlikely. Both of the Stark girls were safe in their home for the time being. She’d fulfilled her oath, and what happened to Catelyn was certainly through no failure of Brienne’s. 

The regret she voiced was softer; far more tender than Jaime expected, despite her saying she did not wish to discuss more tender matters. 

“I would have to say at this moment I regret that I was unable to go see my father again before this,” she said. “To go back to Tarth at least for a brief visit, and know if he was proud of what I had become.”

There was a beat, a few moments where Jaime simply looked at her, his cup at rest on his knee, his golden hand glinting in the firelight atop the arm of his chair. Brienne’s gaze found his, and he spoke without hesitation. 

“Only a fool would be anything other than proud at what you have become, and I’ve never heard your lord father called such.” 

“Yes, I have heard some fathers _do_ take pride in their children,” Tyrion quipped. “Jaime and I would not know from experience, but I suspect my brother’s judgment is sound, my lady.” 

For whatever that was worth. 

“Unless Ser Davos wishes to take his turn--” 

“Not a chance,” Davos muttered.

“--That brings us to you, Ser Jaime. What do you most regret?” 

“I suppose I’m only allowed to voice one regret,” Jaime joked, more to stall than anything else

“We might very well miss the alarm if we had to listen to the entirety of each other’s regrets,” Tyrion said over the rim of his cup. He took a noisy drink, then added, “besides, it would be selfish. Why should you have all the fun?” 

Jaime answered with a soft, humorless snort. He was looking down again, able to feel the regard of his companions--of two people in particular. Two people who knew different aspects of his deepest regrets. 

He regretted almost everything about Tysha, so much so that he’d been unable to speak her name in years. And Cersei… What could he even say about Cersei that his brother didn’t intuit already? So much of him regretted it. All of it. Some part of him still didn’t. 

Then there was Aerys. He could not and certainly would not regret the actions he’d taken, but perhaps he regretted the pride that silenced him afterward. Kingslayer was his legacy, and there was only one person who’d ever heard the truth of it from his lips. Someone he’d mocked. Belittled. Lied to. Abandoned. Someone he was unfit to fight beside who was still permitting him that honor, as if he had any to speak of.

Then there were the regrets that had nothing to do with Tyrion or Brienne, Bran Stark chief among them.

Had it just been her and Tyrion, he might have voiced one of those. But Jaime Lannister’s sins were his own, and he would keep most of them until the day they lit his pyre, whether that was hours from now, or decades. 

So instead he began to speak of a more general regret. One he’d long held, protected by the depths of his own cynicism. “I’ve squandered my knighthood,” he said, a simply-stated fact with more behind it than he was willing to voice. “I always wanted to be a knight, and I could have chosen no one more brave, more honorable than the man who bestowed that upon me. I swore three oaths that day, and I’ve broken each of them too many times to count.” 

He considered his cup for a moment, the wine like ash lining the back of his throat. Already he’d said more than he wished. What was a bit more? 

“Over half my life, I’ve watched others piss away their own knighthood just as I’ve done with mine. Sometimes I think the title has become more of a shield than a vow. Good men--good _people_ \--do far more without it.” His fingers tightened around his cup, then eased. “Do you know, I’ve never knighted another man? Not once. I kept holding onto some foolish hope that I’d find someone who would make more of the title than I ever could. Someone who was just and brave and true, and all of the other virtues we’re charged to uphold. I don’t know that such a person even exists.” 

Something tugged at his consciousness, cutting through the bitterness he’d mired himself deep within. There was one person. One person who’d never willingly broken a vow. The only truly honorable person he knew. 

Jaime’s gaze lifted to Brienne, holding there for several moments as the weight of those thoughts settled upon him. It should have meant nothing. Most knights had shit for honor, and only used their title to further their own ends. It shouldn’t matter that there was one person who made him believe in the things he’d believed when he knelt before Ser Arthur Dayne. 

But it did matter. It meant everything.

“Maybe one does exist,” he said, his eyes not straying from hers. 

 

\- 6 -  
BRIENNE

Jaime’s affirmation both surprised her and actually soothed some of the hurt of voicing that regret. It had been years, and while she had written her father letters, received a few even while being here in Winterfell, it was nothing like being home with him. 

But going home also felt like it would have been a death to the duty she had chosen. Brienne had another duty to Tarth she had yet to fulfill, and it was one she wasn’t certain she could. To be the heir, and in turn produce more heirs.

Tyrion’s comment had her breaking eye contact again before she got any fancy notions that such things could still be possible. She gave them both a sheepish smile and bowed her head.

Davos stuck to his word of not playing the game when Tyrion directed it back to him. Brienne wondered if it had to do with his own children, considering the words he offered Tormund. The wildling had broken out of his more dour mood again, sipping at the horn and eyeing her like she was a prized cow.

Brienne shifted slightly, putting more of her shoulder in his view, her face directed more towards the Lannister brothers. It was then Tyrion put Jaime on the spot. Other than Ser Davos, Jaime was the only one left who hadn’t taken his turn.

Their easy manner with each other was nice to watch. Would Galladon and her have had such a rapport had he not died? Or her two little sisters who were gone nearly as soon as they had arrived. It was a sweet ache to remember them now, no longer bringing her to true sadness.

Jaime watched his feet, and she wished she could read his mind. She knew some of his secrets, shared when he was half dead at Harrenhal, but the biggest of those she doubted that he actually regretted.

What he decided to speak on actually surprised her, along with the rough cadence of his voice, “I’ve squandered my knighthood. I always wanted to be a knight, and I could have chosen no one more brave, more honorable than the man who bestowed that upon me. I swore three oaths that day, and I’ve broken each of them too many times to count.”

He spoke of Arthur Dayne, dead well before she had ever dreamed of picking up a sword. But many knights of the realm looked to him as an aspiration, even if those same knights never even came close to living up to those ideals. Her brow drew together, watching Jaime and his expression.

He was distressed over how others had treated the role, himself included. That much was obvious in his body language as much as it was his words. A tinge of self-loathing, and ire towards others that had broken their vows.

Jaime had broken many vows, but often, at least from what she understood about him, they were to uphold others. Protecting the innocent of King’s Landing being the biggest, the personal oaths to his family coming next. But even that last one he had broken for her, to fulfill one for a woman long dead. Brienne swallowed hard as he looked in her direction.

He had just finished saying he had never knighted someone, something he had hoped to do, as he had never found anyone worthy of it. Expressed that someone like that likely did not exist.

But his eyes honed on her, as if he was working out a puzzle that she was at the center of. “Maybe one does exist.”

He did not look away, so she could not, even as the half frightened chuckle escaped her. Even as her head tilted, she kept her eyes on his, though her own expression had turned the puzzle back at him.

“You don’t mean me,” was her voice shaking. It felt like it was. She cleared her throat, “I can’t be a knight.”

“Why not?” Tormund’s voice broke the spell and she looked up to the ceiling as if asking the Gods for strength.

“Women can’t be knights. It’s tradition.” One she had hoped to break and damn Jaime Lannister for making her think for one moment she might be able to still do it.

“Fuck tradition,” came the wildling’s voice again, and she closed her eyes. He had no idea what he was saying. No idea what being a knight entailed, he was just trying to make her feel better. Which she could appreciate, but not from him.

She noticed in her peripheral that Jaime had risen from his chair and moved over to the table with the wine. Her eyes focused on Podrick, her squire, who should be a squire to a knight. Brienne had told him to return to King’s Landing, or go somewhere else, when he had first been _gifted_ to her. Because she was not a knight, and had no need of a squire.

“I don’t want to be a knight.” It was the most egregious lie she had ever spoken. And Podrick, he gave her a look that was pained, as if he knew very well how bad of a lie it was.

“If I were able, I would knight you ten times over,” Tormund continued, and Brienne rolled her eyes heavensward again. If this kept up, she’d march right out of this room. As it were, her face was already too hot, and she moved her wine cup from hand to hand nervously.

 

\- 7 -  
JAIME

Once the revelation had been made on Jaime’s part--certainly later than it should have been, but perhaps not _too_ late, considering--he had only to work up the courage to actually do it.

It was a strange thing. Such a feat shouldn’t require courage, yet Jaime found he was having a difficult time swallowing past the lump in his throat. His mouth was suddenly dry, his heart hammered in his chest, and a few beads of sweat dotted his brow. 

He didn’t answer her. He wasn’t entirely sure he could; not with words that would be appropriate. There was no room for his usual tone here. No room for anything she might misread as mockery. This was very likely the single most important thing he would ever do with his title, and he intended to make the most of it. 

If nothing else, she deserved that much from him. 

He rose, the corners of his lips twitching just so at Tormund’s words. Fuck tradition, indeed. He was finding less and less cause to despise the Wildling, even when he said he would knight Brienne himself, were it in his power to do so. Pouring a fresh cup, Jaime drank deep, wishing it was something with a bit more bite to it. He emptied the cup and set it down, drawing in such a great breath that his shoulders shuddered with the inhale. 

“Fortunately, I _am_ able.” He moved to the center of the chamber, his fingers tapping nervously against the pommel of his sword before he drew it from its scabbard, the flawless steel shining in the firelight. He held it at rest, looking to her once more. “Kneel, Lady Brienne.” 

She scoffed, but Jaime scarcely gave her the chance to voice the doubts he knew were running through her mind. “If you truly don’t wish to be a knight, then we can all face the upcoming battle as though this conversation never occurred. But if you do…” His voice softened, becoming something tender. Coaxing. Almost pleading. “Kneel.” 

She looked to Pod then, and Jaime saw the look of pride and encouragement in the young man’s eyes. He was everything a squire should be, and Jaime suspected he would make a fine knight himself, one day. An honor he hoped Brienne would bestow. 

If she accepted his. 

There were so many reasons to deny him. He’d just listed off all the ways in which most knights completely dishonored the title. He was a terrible example, and one of the least honorable people who could ever grant her a knighthood. But selfishly, he didn’t want it to be anyone else. And when she finally stood, her chair scraping softly across the stones, Jaime reminded himself to breathe. 

A feat made that much harder as she came to stand before him, her hand gripping Oathkeeper’s pommel even now. There was caution in her eyes, but something was beginning to replace it. Hope, he thought. Or perhaps a silent plea that he not disappoint her now, as he had done so many times in the past. 

Jaime swallowed hard as she knelt before him, his fingers dancing along the hilt of his blade. He’d watched other knights bestow this honor, and many times it had always seemed so casual. There was nothing casual about this. Not to him. As he stood there, taking in a steadying breath so that his hand wouldn’t shake, he thought perhaps Ser Arthur might have understood. Perhaps he might even be proud. 

Lifting Widow’s Wail, he held the flat of it above her right shoulder and began to speak, that same softness in his voice. “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” He moved the blade to her left shoulder. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” And to her right once more. “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.” 

The sword was pulled away, his eyes never leaving hers, a sense of pride and wonder overtaking aught else as she looked up at him. “Arise, Brienne of Tarth, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

Nothing else existed. Not his past, nor the doomed future that stretched beyond. Not this castle, or any of the people within it. All he saw was her, his heart twisting in his chest as she looked at him that way--as though he’d given her the single greatest gift anyone had ever received.

If he accomplished nothing else in his life, at least there was this. At least he’d been brave enough, just enough to do _this_. And perhaps if he could manage such a feat, he might manage more...

Jaime opened his mouth to speak. It wasn’t until the clapping began that he remembered they had an audience, and the words died in his throat, swallowed down alongside a thick swell of emotion. 

 

\- 8 -  
BRIENNE

It was Jaime who retorted to Tormund this time, only… it wasn’t what she had expected at all. When he said he was able, her head snapped to look at him. He was already walking to the center of the room, and that satisfying sound of a sword being pulled from its sheath echoed against the stone walls. His gaze was cast to her, sword pointed down, his back straight.

“Kneel, Lady Brienne.”

Her reaction was instantaneous, the noise of disbelief exiting her lips. Brienne had long forgiven him for being cruel to her on the road, but she didn’t think she’d ever forgive him for making a joke of this. Her eyes burned as she pulled them away from him, and they found Podrick’s.

The kindness she found there made her suck in a breath. He was encouraging her, which meant he believed that Jaime was not joking. Her head turned back to Jaime, a shell shocked expression on her face.

He spoke again, and there was none of the sarcasm or bite she was used to. His eyes were as much as a promise as his words, reassuring her that if she did not want it, they would forget this had ever happened. Another look to Podrick, and he gave her a nod.

She did want it. Wanted it so badly she could feel her throat getting tighter, unable to speak, the tears burning brighter in her eyes. Yes, this is what she wanted. Brienne stated it in her mind, over and over, until she found the courage to get out of her seat, and walk to face him.

Kept on repeating it as she pleaded with him silently not to make a fool of her, to not mock her and pull this offer away from her. And then she kneeled, eyes settling at first on the floor between his boots, her heart thumping loudly in her chest as she waited to find out if he was being true.

And as his sword first touched her shoulder, her mouth quivered because no one had ever done something like this for her. No one ever could, but Jaime. No other knight in the realm would ever dishonor themselves by knighting a woman. No other knight of in the realm would see her as worthy.

“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.”

She would be, and always had been. The dead were coming and she would face them with bravely until her last breath. Fight until there was nothing left to fight. 

“In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.”

She had meted out justice before, and she had no doubt she would again. Brienne finally looked up at Jaime as the sword passed one final time.

“In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.” 

She had settled with her disappointment long ago, that despite never getting this honor, never holding this title, that she would always uphold these virtues, that she would not break them for anything. But here was someone -- no, not just someone, _Jaime_ \-- he saw all of it in her and had decided to give her this honor.

He looked proud as he told her to rise, announcing her new title to the hall, but there might as well have been no one else there but the two of them. She had never dared hope for this, much like many things in her life. And it was a true gift. She knew she was worthy of it, but still did not lessen the grandeur of it, and it certainly made her love _him_ all the more.

That had been another thing she hadn’t dared to hope for. That spark of affection and adoration that she thought she saw in his eyes, that she knew was in hers. That she tried so hard to tamp down inside her because why would Jaime Lannister ever want someone like her. It was easy to start tumbling over that pit into those dreaded hopeful thoughts and she took a step towards him.

... and then the spell was broken. Clapping snapped her from her thoughts, and she smiled at Jaime who was looking at everyone else in the room as if he had been just as lost as her.

Tyrion lifted his cup, “To Brienne of Tarth, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

They were toasting to her, and she searched every face in the room. Not one of them looked disappointed. Not one of them looked taken aback by what just happened. They looked happy for her. Happy.

Her smile broadened, splitting her face in a way that had not happened in years, and she didn’t care if the tears finally fell from her eyes. Brienne didn’t even care if she died tonight, this was the greatest moment in her life. If she died, she would die a knight. If she lived, then she would be honored as a knight.

And if her service was ever dismissed from the Starks, she knew who she would swear her next oath to.

 

\- 9 -  
JAIME

Even after he’d realized they weren’t the only two people in existence, Jaime had a difficult time engaging with anyone else. Especially when he looked back and saw her smile. Every other time he’d seen her do it, it’d been closed-mouthed, just the barest upturn on her lips, the slightest rounding to her cheeks. This was full and free and so open that Jaime felt as though he were looking straight at the sun. 

There was no gentle beauty in it, like the soft caress of a summer breeze. It was harsh. Almost blinding. Impossible to see anything else. And yet it was so genuine that he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Worse than that, he had the foolish notion that he would give absolutely anything to see that smile for the rest of his days; to be the one who made it appear, now and for as long as she would allow it.

He’d only ever had such thoughts about one woman, and those were far different from this. When he’d pictured a future with Cersei, it’d always been an ideal version. A clean version. A version where they didn’t have to hide, where their children were recognized, where the world treated them as though they weren’t siblings at all. A version where she loved him unconditionally, not as a reflection of herself; not for the things he could do for her. A version where she wasn’t fucking other men and using sex as a weapon to bring him in line. A version that didn’t include Cersei at all--not as she was.

This was something else. This was everything that had been and everything that currently was. Not some idealized version, but what was right before him. Beautiful and ugly and tender and violent. The jagged edges of a blacksmith’s puzzle that somehow fit together just so. One blade melted and reforged into two. 

He was in love with this woman. 

It hit him with such force, such startling clarity that all Jaime could do was stand there and stare. It should have been obvious. Everything he’d done had been an expression of love. _For her._ Yet Jaime always assumed it was a love borne of admiration. Something honorable and pure. To be _in love_ with her was something else entirely, and throughout it all, he’d never let himself see that. 

But now he was staring at the bright, blinding sun of Tarth, and he could see more clearly than ever before. 

Had they been alone, he might have said something; done something. Or perhaps now he was looking at an idealized version of himself. Perhaps he’d remain a coward, even at the end of the world. Even when he could believe he saw a glimmer of those same things reflected in her eyes. 

It wasn’t for him to know. They weren’t alone, something that became all the more clear as they rejoined the others by the fire. The conversation that followed was friendly; unburdened. There were long stretches of time where no one said anything at all, and all of them seemed quite content with that. 

Jaime had always imagined these last moments of contemplation would turn morose. Either that or he’d deflect his own mortality with acerbic wit, much like his brother. But there was a thread of hope that hummed within him, and he could almost believe they might make it through this night.

Almost. 

As the fire burned low, a song was suggested, and eventually one was sung. By Pod of all people, whose voice was clear and crisp, filling the quiet chamber with something beautiful, haunting, and all-too-appropriate for the hours to come. 

Jaime’s mood did turn somber then. He no longer drank, any fuzziness long since departing his mind. Even Tyrion had abandoned the cup, and soon enough, their companions began to abandon the fire. 

“I think it’s time for these weary old bones to get some rest,” Davos said, the first of them to leave.

Shortly after, Tormund stood, stretching his massive form in a graceless way. “I need to see where my little crow has flown off to. He will freeze to death if I’m not watching him,” he said with a grin. 

Jaime likely should have taken his leave, as well. Instead he found himself glancing at Brienne, wondering just how few people would have to be in this room for him to say… anything at all. Either he truly was as obvious as he feared, or Tyrion was just as insightful as he’d always claimed, because he took Pod aside in an exchange Jaime barely heard. 

In the next moment, he had exactly what he’d hoped for--and what he’d dreaded. He was as alone with her as he was ever going to be in this castle. By this point, they had perhaps another hour at most before the dead closed in. If he was going to say something, now was certainly the time. 

Yet when he looked at her, the words became stuck in his throat. He had to look away, toward the fire, to say anything at all. “What will you do if we survive this, _Ser_ Brienne?” 

 

\- 10 -  
BRIENNE

The next little while was spent in a drunken joy that she could not fall out of. When she had finally returned to her seat, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, she finished off the few sips of wine remaining in her cup and set it on the floor beside her.

Brienne was not drunk on the wine. It was so weak, she’d be surprised if anyone in the room was more than tipsy off of it. No, it was the ecstacy of the gift he had given her, settling on her shoulders like a comforting mantle, invisible, yet still very present.

Though her smile was no longer as broad, her lips stayed upturned even as the room turned to a comfortable silence. If death approached, each person here had found some sort of comfort and contentment in these final moments. More than once she had caught herself looking over to Jaime, only to see him watching her with a small smile on his lips, his eyes lit with something genuine and something new. It would have been startling at any other moment in their journey together, but right now they had a kinship that felt stronger than the other bonds they had formed so far.

It wasn’t until Podrick started singing the somewhat melancholy tune that she finally let herself come out of the clouds. She knew the story behind this song, about Jenny and her losses, and the destruction of Summerhall.

There was one line that rang true for her more than the others. She never wanted to leave this perfect moment of camaraderie and honor, with Jaime watching her like he was in awe of her. 

Her face felt hot, and she wondered if it was just the heat of the fire or a blush spreading across her cheeks. How long had it actually been since she had blushed. A teen? Perhaps before the cruel japes made her realize she’d never be accepted as the lady she was meant to be.

The way he was looking at her made her feel like she actually could be that lady, or at least a lady and a knight all wrapped up in the same person.

Others began to slowly filter out of the room. First Davos, then Tormund who blessedly did not ruin the moment by making another one of his crude suggestions. After a soft discussion that she could not hear, Podrick and Tyrion found their way out of the hall as well.

That’s when her shyness returned, and she kept her face to the fire, watching the flames dance across the thick stack of wood. She should thank him, somehow, preferably with words even though her mind wished to kiss his cheek like some pretty maid.

Thankfully, he was the one that broke the silence, with a question that was much weightier than he likely intended it to be. And he used ser before her name, making a great well of warmth bloom in her belly. 

But a great battle loomed ahead and if they survived it, there was more fighting to come.

Brienne did not want to ruin this moment with such thoughts, but she could not be dishonest either. Turning to look at him, his eyes seemingly on the fire much as hers had been moments before, “Once all the fighting is done, for this war and the next, I’ll honor my oath to remain with Lady Sansa until she releases me. I would by her leave travel to Tarth to see my father, and let him know of the honor you have given me tonight, and hopefully see his eyes finally proud instead of worried. Though, he would likely still press for me to find a suitor. I am the last of our family line…”

She sighed softly at that and turned her eyes back to the hearth, the thought catching fire in her mind. Brienne wanted it to be him of course, but hoping for that would be too much. Even in this haze of happiness, she could not let herself hope to do more than bask in his gaze.

Though, perhaps she could offer that token. It was a courtly thing after all, and he could take it however he liked. Brienne stood, walking the short distance between their chairs and looked down at him. “Thank you for the honor you bestowed on me tonight. I will never forget it.”

She leaned down and pressed her lips to his cheek, but did not linger. Pulling herself back, she turned her gaze away, feeling embarrassed yet again, but not in the way that made her uncomfortable. 

Brienne could not make herself look at him after that, only echoing his question back to him, “And what will you do if we survive, Ser Jaime?”

 

\- 11 -  
JAIME

He’d expected her to speak of her oaths. The one she’d made to Lady Sansa, predominantly, and any she might make in the future. He supposed what she said was an oath of sorts, but there was a softness to it that reminded Jaime she was not merely a knight.

“Once all the fighting is done, for this war and the next, I’ll honor my oath to remain with Lady Sansa until she releases me. I would by her leave travel to Tarth to see my father, and let him know of the honor you have given me tonight, and hopefully see his eyes finally proud instead of worried.” A smile touched his lips at that, and his gaze returned to hers at what might well have been the worst possible moment. “Though, he would likely still press for me to find a suitor. I am the last of our family line…”

He’d known that in some distant part of his mind, of course. She’d made as much of a promise to her father as any other she’d sworn on bended knee. At first, he’d cruelly wondered just how much the Sapphire Isles must be worth to inspire the suitors that were likely to inquire after her. Eventually he’d settled into the thought that none of those men deserved her, and they did her a disservice by even asking. 

Now he found himself coming to the curious realization that he was no longer bound by the shackles of the Kingsguard. He could marry, were he so inclined. He’d always wanted that. Not the arranged marriage and the inheritance foisted upon him, but the honest legitimacy of a family he chose. The only reason he’d joined the Kingsguard was because he couldn’t have that, and because Cersei wanted another token of his fealty. 

It was such a strange thought to have _now_ , of all times. Where was the cynic who’d been so convinced of his own demise? Knowing he’d leave something positive behind in this mess was a comfort of sorts, and maybe that was what made him entertain ideas he’d never spared much of a thought to before. 

He could be one of those suitors. He could put all the rest to shame, despite the fact that he was almost certainly to be parted from what little remained of the Lannister fortune if Daenerys won the war for the throne. He might even be executed, and it was somewhat difficult to marry if his head was cleaved from his shoulders. But he _could_ do it, if they survived all of this. He was almost of a mind to tell her that now, but it all felt so very absurd. Like a song the minstrels might sing, wherein the “hero” asked for the hand of his lady love the night before a great battle, only to never return and claim it. 

In the event of his likely demise, would it be better for her to know, or worse? If he somehow survived, would he even be worthy? Surely her father would reject him on reputation alone. Brienne might overrule that rejection--he’d always imagined any man who allowed his daughter to train as she had must be entirely wrapped around her finger--but she might not. It was one thing to allow him to fight beside her, to knight her, or even to share a bed with her. Accepting a proposal would be something else. It would mean accepting everything he was, everything he’d done, and swearing a vow to him anyway.

If anyone would do it, it would be Brienne. And yet Jaime was still afraid to ask. 

Those were the thoughts that tumbled through his mind when she rose from her chair and came to stand before him. He looked up at her, feeling strangely vulnerable. Never more so than when she started to lean down. Jaime’s breath caught, his heart pounding as though he were some virtuous young maid praying for his first kiss from the knight he fancied. Perhaps he was, because that chaste, courtly brush of her lips against his cheek might very well do him in before the dead or the Dragon Queen ever had their chance. 

He reached for her hand on reflex, almost too quickly. Her fingers were rough and sword-callused, but as a whole, her hand was soft and warm, just as that quick brush of her lips had been. He had the curious notion to pull her back down to him and take a kiss from her that would be far less proper, but he didn’t feel as though he’d earned that. And in _not_ doing so, he just found he was awkwardly holding her hand. Worse still, she’d said something in all of that and Jaime was only just now beginning to realize it.

He released her hand and she looked away, toward the fire. She didn’t move, though…

“The honor is mine,” he said, finally finding his voice again. “I should have done it after you fulfilled your vow-- _my_ vow--to Catelyn Stark. I’m sorry it took something so very dramatic for me to do the right thing.” 

The corner of his lips quirked upward just slightly. She still hadn’t moved away, and Jaime could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears. It was so loud now he was sure she could hear it, too. The whole damned castle could probably hear it. 

“And what will you do if we survive, Ser Jaime?” she asked, still not looking at him.

He studied her features in the firelight’s glow. The proud tilt to her chin, the slight, upturned line of her lips, the way her lashes--more elegant than he’d expected--swept over her freckled cheek when she closed her eyes. 

“If I’m being honest, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Until tonight.” She might not have been looking at him, but he couldn’t pry his eyes from her, nor could he dampen the weight behind that admission. “I didn’t come here to die, but I never imagined I’d live.” His gaze cast to the fire, then back to her. “If we make it through this, and through the war yet to come, I… don’t know what I’ll do. King’s Landing isn’t my home any longer. Casterly Rock never truly was.” 

Jaime swallowed, slowly rising to his feet. “I’m not sure I know how to live independent of Cersei,” he admitted, “but I’ve finally come around to the idea that I need to. Even if she’s spared.” 

Surely she would realize what he was truly saying in all of that. _I’m not going back to her. I can’t. Not any longer._

He waited until her eyes were on his again. Endless, crystalline blue depths, like the waters that surrounded Tarth. “Brienne, I…” 

If left to his own devices, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to finish that sentence. Even now, he had no idea what he intended to say. But a horn blared, its sound muffled by the castle walls, yet no less chilling. Another joined it. Then another. 

The dead were here.

 

\- 12 -  
BRIENNE

He had clutched her hand, and she wondered at it. They had fought each other, fought with each other, and she had tended to him when he lost his hand. They had even bathed together in Harrenhal, much to her initial embarrassment, but not even that felt as intimate as the feel of his fingers in hers.

Warrior give her strength, she thought she might crack. He released it when her eyes went to the fire, and she swallowed nervously. He mentioned it being his honor and how she had honored his oath and hers and she felt emotion swelling in her again. Brienne had considered Jaime a good man for some time now, based on actions alone, since his words could be bitter.

It was odd being around a version of him whose words entirely matched her view of him, and it was very nearly disarming. 

After that, it was his turn to answer her question. 

There was silence, and she could see him watching her out of the corner of her eye. She dared not look, not yet, not when she felt so strange and so unguarded. But eventually he spoke.

“If I’m being honest, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Until tonight.” It didn’t surprise her. That first day, he jested about his death, didn’t seem to care if it would claim him. Part of her wondered if he hadn’t come here to die, one last final blaze of glory, fighting on the side of the living. Was he hoping it would absolve his sins. He dismissed that with his next words, though she wasn’t sure if she could truly believe that.

“I didn’t come here to die, but I never imagined I’d live. If we make it through this, and through the war yet to come, I… don’t know what I’ll do. King’s Landing isn’t my home any longer. Casterly Rock never truly was.”

That shocked her enough to look over at him. He had oaths to fulfill in King’s Landing, did he not? They had not spoken of his actual departure, just that Cersei had no intention of sending her armies north to assist.

“I’m not sure I know how to live independent of Cersei,” she watched as he rose to his feet, turning away towards the fire again, uncertain at his words and proximity in that moment, “but I’ve finally come around to the idea that I need to. Even if she’s spared.” 

That was a heavy admittance, and it weighed on her. He was going to leave Cersei behind? After everything he had done for her, and how close they had been. Brienne had not liked her, but she knew how important she was to Jaime. Enough that he had stayed behind while sending her forth to fulfill an oath contradictory to Cersei’s orders.

But that spark in her that had been blooming and pulsing through the night caught at those words as well. If he was leaving her behind, did that mean something more for them? Brienne had never been so vain until she had such a thought. Despite what happened here tonight, such dreams were for the young, the beautiful. She finally dared to look over at him and he breathed her name like a prayer…

A prayer that was interrupted by the sharp clarion call of the warning horns. There was anguish in her features when she closed her eyes, but when she opened them there was resolve. Her heart could wait, tonight there was a battle to be had.

A quiet nod passed between them, and both strode out of the hall into the night to what could very well be their death. Brienne knew even as the frozen earth crunched under her boots, she’d do everything she could to make sure he survived.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've enjoyed this, please let us know what you think!


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